MM 


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M,^Mm<mm%m^ 


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BYWAYS   AROUND 
SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 


>     ILUSTRATtD    B'l      I  Fit    Al   I 


THE     ABINGDON     PRESS 

NEW     YORK  CINCINNATI 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
W.   E.   HUTCHINSON 


LIBRARY 

UNiVERsrrv  of  californm 

SANTA  BARBARA 


Si^^ 


DEDICATED    TO 

MY   WIFE 

THE    DEAREST   YET    SEVEREST 

OF    CRITICS 


Sunset  in  the  Golden 
Gate  (Poem),    , 

Brook  and  Waterfall, 

Mountain  and  Valley, 

Canon  and  Hillside,   . 

Wild-cat  Canon,     .... 

Autumn  Days   (Poem),  . 

Around  the  Camp  Fire, 

Trout  Fishing  in  the  Berkeley  Hills,     .      . 

On  the  Beach, 

Muir  Woods,         

San  Francisco   Bay  (Poem), 

In  Chinatown, 


9 

23 
33 
43 
53 
57 
65 
75 
85 
9S 
99 


G  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


In  a  Glass-bottom  Boat, iii 

Fog  on  the  Bay, 121 

Meiggs'  Wharf, 131 

The  Stake  and  Rider  Fence  (Poem),     .      .  139 

MoonHght, 143 

Mount  Tamalpais, 153 

Bear  Creek, 161 

The  Song  of  the  Reel  (Poem),    .      .      .      .  171 

The  Old  Road,     ......     .0.  175 


sitrations 


On  the  Road  to  Strawberry 

Canon,       .      .       Frontispiece 

The  Laughter  of  the  Brook, 

Brook  and  Waterfall, 

The  Turn  of  the  Trail,   . 

Mountain  and  Valley, 

Sunshine  and  Shadow, 

Caiion  and  Hillside,   . 

The  Bottom  of  the  Caiion,   . 

Wild-cat  Canon,     .... 

The  Trout's  Paradise, 

Fishing  for  Brook  Trout,     . 

They  have  Stood  the  Storms 


17 

19 

27 

29 

37 
39 
47 
49 
69 

71 


of  Centuries, 


79 


8  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Sea  Gull  Rock, 8i 

Comrades,         89 

Among  the  Redwoods, 91 

A  Chinese  Shoemaker, 103 

In  Chinatown, 105 

The  Breaking  Waves, 115 

The  Glass-bottom  Boat, 117 

Fog  on  the  Bay, 125 

Italian  Fishing  Boats, 135 

Drying  the  Nets,        .      , 137 

The  Witchery  of  Moonlight,       .....  147 

Mount  Tamalpais, 157 

An  Uninterrupted  View, 159 

Where  the  Shadows  are  Dark,     ....  165 

On  Bear  Creek, 167 

The  Old  Road, 179 

It  Climbs  the  Hill  for  a  Broader  View,       .  181 

Finis, 1 84 


ate 


■"(HI        !■      Il' 


WHEN  day  is  done  there  falls  a  solemn 
hush: 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  humble  nest. 
Then  comes  the  iVIaster  Artist  with  his  brush, 
And  paints  with  brilliant  touch  the  golden 
west. 

The  blended  colors  sweep  across  the  sky, 
And  add  a  halo  at  the  close  of  day. 

Their  roseate  hues  far-reaching  banners  fly, 
And  gild  the  restless  waters  of  the  bay. 

Mount  Tamalpais  stands  in  purple  'tire 
Against  the   background,    Phcrnixlike,   or- 
nate: 

Apollo  drives  his  chariot  of  fire 

Between  the  portals  of  the  Golden  Gate. 


12  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

No  Other  hand  than  His  who  rules  on  high, 
Could   wield   the   brush    and   spread   such 
bright  array 

Upon  the  outstretched  canvas  of  the  sky, 
Then  draw  the  curtain  of  departing  day. 


rook"  a1\  ifW  a  t  e  r  f  a  1  I 


Brook^dnd    Waterfall 


CALIFORNIA,  the  land  of  sunshine  and 
roses,  with  its  genial  climate,  its  skies 
as  blue  as  the  far-famed  skies  of  Venice,  and 
its  pure  life-giving  air,  invites  the  lover  of 
nature  to  take  long  tramps  over  hill  and  dale, 
mountain  and  valley,  and  to  search  out  new 
trails  in  the  rugged  mountains. 

It  is  a  common  sight  to  see  parties  of  men 
and  women  meet  at  the  ferry  building, 
dressed  in  khaki  suits,  with  knapsacks  strapped 
on  their  backs,  waiting  to  take  the  boat  across 
the  bay  to  some  of  the  numerous  places  of 
interest.  There  are  plenty  to  choose  from, 
but  most  of  them  go  to  the  same  places  over 
and  over,  instead  of  searching  out  unfre- 
quented nooks  that  give  one  a  feeling  of  pro- 
prietorship when  discovered.  It  is  an  old  say- 
ing, and  a  trite  one,  that  "Familiarity  breeds 


16  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

contempt/'  It  is  certainly  true,  however,  that 
we  often  pass  over  the  familiar  and  common- 
place to  go  into  raptures  over  some  lofty 
mountain  peak,  ignoring  the  gems  that  lie 
hidden  away  at  its  very  base. 

There  is  a  quiet  beauty  in  the  broad  sweep 
of  the  valley,  a  stately  majesty  in  the  towering 
mountains,  a  restful  grandeur  in  the  rounded 
domes  of  the  tree-clad  hills,  and  an  element  of 
strength  in  the  broad  sweep  of  the  ocean.  One 
never  tires  of  watching  the  constant  change  of 
light  and  shade,  for  they  never  appear  twice 
alike.  But  we  are  in  search  of  unfrequented 
nooks,  the  byways  that  others  pass  unnoticed, 
so  we  leave  the  prominent  to  seek  out  the 
obscure. 

To  enjoy  the  out-of-doors  at  its  best  one 
needs  a  congenial  companion ;  one  who  does 
not  tire  on  the  trail  nor  find  fault  with  the 
little  annoying  things  that  are  bound  to  occur 
on  a  long  journey,  but  who,  in  the  silent  con- 
templation of  God's  handiwork,  best  expresses 
his  appreciation  of  its  wonderful  beauty  in 
silence;  for  there  are  times  when  silent  en- 
joyment of  a  landscape  produces  a  subtle 
interchange  of  thought  that  speaks  louder 
than  words. 


BROOK   AND   WATERFALL 


17 


Such  a  one  is  Hal,  more  like  a  brother  than 
a  son,  and  in  winding  over  tortuous  trails 
and  climbing  the  rugged  sides  of  mountains 
we  have  become  good  comrades ;  bound  to- 
gether by  the  invisible  tie  of  "Nature  Lovers" 
and  the  "Call  of  the  Wild,"  as  well  as  the 
greater  bond  of  kinship. 

One  could  not  begin  to  tell  of  the  pleasure 
derived  from  these  rambles  over  valley  and 
mountain,  not  to  speak 
of  the  health-giving  exer- 
cise in  the  open  air. 
They  are  far  better  than 
doctors'  prescriptions,  for 
they  drive  the  cobwebs 
from  the  brain,  bring  re- 
freshing slumber,  a  new 
light  to  the  eye,  elasticity 
to  the  step,  and  keep  one 
young  in  spirit,  if  not  in 
years. 

It  was  a  bright  June 
morning  when  Hal  and  I 
took  the  ferryboat  for 
Sausalito,  then  by  train 
to  Mill  Valley.  It  was 
just  cool  enough  to  make 


^ 


THE  LAUGHTER  OF  THE  BROOK 


18  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

walking  a  pleasure,  and  after  the  clamor  of 
the  city  the  somber  shadows  of  the  forest,  with 
its  solitude,  seemed  like  a  benediction.  On 
every  side  the  giant  redwoods  tower  hundreds 
of  feet  in  air,  straight  and  imposing,  while 
the  ground,  on  which  the  pine  needles  and 
crumbling  bark  have  formed  a  brown  mold, 
is  as  soft  and  springy  to  the  tread  as  a  velvet 
carpet. 

The  resinous,  aromatic  odor  of  the  pines, 
combined  with  the  fresh  woodsy  fragrance,  is 
like  a  tonic.  Just  ahead  of  us  we  see  a  growth 
of  manzanitas,  with  their  smooth  purple- 
brown  bark  and  pinkish  white  flowers  in 
crowded  clusters,  standing  out  vividly  against 
the  background  of  oaks  and  firs,  and  we  sink 
knee-deep  amid  the  ferns  and  blue  and  yellow 
lupine.  It  seems  almost  sacrilegious  to 
trample  these  exquisite  violet-hooded  flowers 
beneath  our  feet. 

Close  to  the  trail  a  little  mountain  brook 
sings  merrily  over  its  pebbly  bed,  dodging  in 
and  out  among  the  rocks,  or  chuckling  in  glee 
as  it  dashes  in  mimic  fury  over  some  unseen 
obstacle,  as  if  it  were  playing  hide  and  seek 
with  the  shadows  along  the  bank.  And  we 
stop  to  rest  and  listen  with   pleasure  to  the 


BROOK   AND    WATERFALL 


BROOK   AND   WATERFALL  21 

music  of  its  woodland  melody.  A  song 
sparrow  joins  in  the  chorus  with  his  quaint 
sweet  lullaby,  like  the  tinkling  of  Venetian 
glass,  his  notes  as  clear  and  delicate  as  a  silver 
bell.  He  evidently  believes  that  singing 
lightens  his  labors,  for  he  is  industriously 
gathering  material  for  the  new  home  he  is 
building  close  at  hand  aided  by  his  demure 
mate,  who,  in  reality,  does  most  of  the  work. 

The  trail  grows  steeper  and  harder  to  climb 
as  we  ascend.  We  hear  the  sound  of  falling 
water  ahead  of  us,  and  around  a  bend  in  the 
path,  and  through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  we 
come  upon  a  beautiful  waterfall  pouring  over 
the  rocks  like  a  bridal  veil. 

We  drop  our  cameras  and  scramble  down 
the  rocks,  drinking  cup  in  hand,  and  slake 
our  thirst  at  this  crystal  fountain.  Was  ever 
a  more  delightful  draught  for  thirsty  mortals 
than  from  this  little  pool  hidden  away  here 
in.  this  mountain  fastness?  It  is  a  place  in 
which  druids  and  wood-nymphs  might  revel, 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  stately  trees  and 
moss-grown  rocks,  fringed  with  ferns  of  all 
kinds,  from  the  delicate  maidenhair  to  the 
wide-spreading  shield  variety,  bordered  with 
blue  and  gold  lupine    (California's  colors), 


22  liVWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

and  close  to  the  falls,  a  bush  thickly  covered 
with  white  flowering  dogwood  blossoms, 
standing  out  like  a  rare  painting  against  the 
green-and-brown  background — a  spot  to  thrill 
the  soul  of  an  artist.  Yet  how  many  had  ever 
found  this  sylvan  retreat,  hidden  away,  as  it 
is,  from  the  main  highway? 


Mountain 
and    Va  1 1  ey 


--^fe*^- 


IT  is  hard  for  us  to  leave  the  falls  with  all 
their  surrounding  beauty,  and  with  re- 
luctance we  take  one  last  look  at  this  delight- 
ful glen  planted  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness, 
and  strike  out  on  the  upward  trail. 

At  a  turn  in  the  path,  where  it  seems  as  if 
we  were  about  to  walk  off  into  space,  we  get 
a  glimpse  through  the  trees  of  Mount  Tamal- 
pais.  Towering  above  us  with  its  seam-scarred 
sides,  rent  and  torn  by  the  storms  of  centuries, 
it  rears  its  jagged  dome  amid  the  clouds.  We 
can  just  make  out  a  train  of  diminutive  cars 
winding  a  tortuous  course  in  and  out  around 
the  curves,  the  toy  engine  fighting  every  inch 
of  the  steep  incline,  and  panting  like  an 
athlete  with  Herculean  efforts  to  reach  the 
summit.  Across  the  intervening  space  a  hawk 
wheels    and    turns    in    ever-widening   circles. 


2(5  BYWAYS  AROUxND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

We  watch  him  through  the  glass,  rising 
higher  and  higher  with  each  successive  sweep, 
until  he  fades  into  a  mere  speck  in  the  distant 
blue. 

Up  we  climb,  until  another  view  discloses 
the  valley  below  us  like  a  panorama.  We 
creep  out  to  the  very  edge,  and  for  miles  in 
either  direction  it  stretches  away,  as  if  some 
giant  hand  had  cleaved  for  himself  a  pathway 
between  the  mountains.  We  stand  spell- 
bound, entranced  by  the  wonderful  beauty  of 
the  scene,  and  drink  long  draughts  of  the 
fresh  mountain  air. 

The  dazzling  splendor  of  the  noonday  sun 
brings  out  vividly  the  variegated  colors  of 
the  foliage,  and  banks  of  white  fleecy  clouds 
floating  overhead  trail  their  shadows  over  the 
valley  and  up  the  mountainside  like  ghostly 
outriders.  The  pointed  tops  of  the  fir  trees, 
miles  below  us,  look  like  stunted  shrubbery; 
the  buildings  in  Mill  Valley  seem  like  dolls' 
houses  nestling  among  the  trees;  while  far  in 
the  distance  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay  glisten 
in  the  sunshine,  Alcatraz  Island  rises  out  of 
its  watery  bed,  and  San  Francisco  stands 
silhouetted  against  the  distant  hills. 

We  are  lost  in  wonder  at  the  grand  spec- 


MOUNTAIN   AND   VALLEY 


27 


tacle  spread  out  before  us;  it  is  a  very  fairy- 
land of  enchantment,  as  if  brought  into  being 
by  the  genii  of  Aladdin.  For  nearly  an  hour 
we  watch  the  lights  and  shadows  flicker  over 
the  valley,  the  high  lights  in  sharp  contrast 
fo  the  deep  dark  purples  of  the  canon. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  valley  the  sloping 
hills  are  covered  with  that  most  exquisite 
flower,  the  California  poppy,  its  countless 
millions  of  golden  blossoms  fairly  covering 
the  earth.  It  is  a  sun  worshiper,  for  not  until 
the  warm  sun 
kisses  its  golden 
head  does  it  wake 
from  its  slumbers 
and  throw  open 
its  tightly  rolled 
petals.  No  won- 
der the  Spanish 
mariners  sailing 
along  the  coast 
and  seeing  these 
golden  flowers 
covering  the  hills 
like  a  yellow  car- 
pet called  this 
"The    Land    of 

THE  TURN   OF   THE   TRAIL 


28  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

Fire."  This  beautiful  flower  is  one  of  Cali- 
fornia's natural  wonders — "Copa-de-oro" — 
cup  of  gold.  It  is  as  famed  in  the  East  as  in 
the  West,  and  thousands  come  to  California 
to  see  it  in  its  prodigal  beauty.  Steps  should 
quickly  be  taken  to  conserve  this  wild  splen- 
dor, and  restrictions  should  be  put  upon  the 
vandals,  who,  not  content  with  picking  what 
they  can  use  to  beautify  the  home,  tear  them 
up  by  the  roots  just  to  see  how  large  an  armful 
they  can  gather,  scattering  their  golden  petals 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven  when  they  begin 
to  droop. 

An  old  dead  pine,  whitened  by  many 
storms,  its  gnarled  and  twisted  branches 
pathetic  in  their  shorn  splendor,  is  brought 
into  prominence  by  the  background  of  vivid 
green  into  which  it  seems  to  shrink,  as  if  to 
hide  its  useless  naked  skeleton. 

But  the  lengthening  shadows  in  the  valley 
warn  us  to  begin  our  descent,  and  as  we  have 
no  desire  to  sleep  out  on  the  trail  without 
blankets  or  other  camp  comforts,  we  begin 
our  return  trip  by  another  route.  Light  wisps 
of  fog  begin  to  gather  around  the  top  of 
Mount  Tamalpais,  and  we  hasten  our  steps, 
for  to  be  caught  in  a  fog  at  this  altitude  may 


MOUNTAIN   AND  VALLEY  31 

mean  a  forced  camp,  with  all  its  attending 
discomforts. 

We  pause  for  a  moment  on  the  margin  of 
a  little  lake  nestling  amid  the  hills,  its  blue 
waters,  unruffled  by  the  wind  in  its  sheltered 
nook,  reflecting  back  as  in  a  mirror  the  trees 
that  surround  it  on  all  sides.  But  we  may  not 
linger  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  this  quiet 
spot,  where  the  red  deer  once  slaked  their 
thirst  at  its  quiet  margin,  standing  kneedeep 
in  the  rushes  and  lilypads. 

Ahead  of  us  a  blue  jay,  that  tattler  of  the 
woods,  flashes  his  blue  coat  in  and  out  among 
the  trees ;  always  saucy,  impertinent,  and  sus- 
picious, bubbling  over  with  something  im- 
portant to  tell,  and  afraid  he  will  not  be  the 
first  to  tell  it.  When  he  discovers  us  watch- 
ing, he  sets  up  his  clamorous  crv  of  "Thief! 
Thief!"  and  hurries  aw^ay  to  spread  the  alarm. 
A  mighty  borrower  of  trouble,  this  gayly 
dressed  harlequin  of  the  w^oods,  and  yet  the 
forest  would  not  seem  complete  without  his 
gay  blue  vestments. 

Suddenly  we  find  ourselves  in  a  cul-de-sac; 
the  trail  coming  to  an  abrupt  end.  We  re- 
trace our  steps,  and  after  much  searching, 
find  a  narrow  trail  almost  hidden  by  vines  and 


32  BYWAY'S  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

underbrush.  Venturing  in,  we  follow  its  tor- 
tuous and  uneven  course  along  the  edge  of  the 
caiion,  and,  as  the  evening  shadows  gather, 
and  the  stars  come  out  one  by  one,  tired  and 
dust-covered,  we  reach  the  valley,  and  enjoy 
the  moonlight  ride  across  the  bay  to  San 
Francisco. 


>^ 


Ginon  and  Hillside 


rr 


DID  you  ever  see  the  Berkeley  hills  in  the 
early  morning,  just  before  the  sun 
comes  stealing  over  their  rounded  domes,  or 
in  the  evening,  just  before  it  sinks  beneath 
the  waters  of  the  bay,  and  casts  its  waning 
light  over  their  rugged  sides? 

There  never  was  a  more  pleasing  sight  than 
their  uneven  profile  sharply  drawn  against 
the  grayish  purple.  Watch  them  as  they 
gradually  assume  shape  out  of  the  decreasing 
shadows.  The  blotches  of  green  and  brown 
take  form  and  grow  into  canons  and  gullies, 
rocks  and  towers,  domes  and  minarets.  What 
a  place  to  build  a  mosque,  and  say  one's 
prayers  to  the  rising  sun! 

Near  the  Greek  Theater,  which  pushes  its 
vast  amphitheater  into  the  heart  of  the  hills, 


36  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

winds  a  canon,  not  large  and  imposing,  but 
very  beautiful.  It  is  called  by  some,  after 
the  policy  of  the  University  of  California, 
through  whose  domain  it  runs,  "Co-ed 
Canon";  by  others,  from  the  abundance  of 
charming  blossoms  and  luscious  fruit  found 
upon  its  rugged  sides,  "Strawberry  Cafion." 
But  "What's  in  a  name?"  By  any  other  it 
would  be  as  pleasing. 

Trees,  gnarled  and  twisted,  reach  out  their 
arms  across  the  little  brook  that  sings  merrily 
at  the  bottom.  Far  into  the  hills  it  pushes 
its  winding  way,  and  one  must  needs  scramble 
over  many  a  fallen  tree  and  mossy  rock  in 
following  its  beautiful  path. 

One  cannot  see  very  far  ahead,  but  at  each 
succeeding  turn  in  the  trail  new  wonders  open 
before  us.  Here  it  is  so  narrow  we  are  com- 
pelled to  walk  in  single  file,  while  just  beyond 
it  broadens  out  into  a  grassy  slope,  and  through 
an  open  vista  on  the  right  we  get  a  glimpse 
of  Old  Grizzly  looming  up  in  all  its  grandeur. 
To  the  left,  far  above  us  on  the  hillside,  we 
can  see  a  large  cement  "C"  some  thirty  feet 
in  length,  placed  there  by  the  students  of  the 
university  to  commemorate  hotly  contested 
games  of  football  between  the  two  colleges. 


CANON   AND    HILLSIDE 


87 


With  what  jealous  care  is  it  watched  over  on 
the  eve  of  a  battle  to  keep  the  contesting  team 
from  painting  it  with  their  college  colors! 

In  this  canon  we  find  that  pest  of  nature- 
lovers  who  are  susceptible  to  it,  the  poison 
oak.    For  all  its  sinister  effects,  it  is  a  charm- 


SUNSHINE  AND   SHADOW" 


ing  shrub  so  far  as  appearance  goes,  with  its 
bright,  glossy  serrated  leaves;  but  do  not 
invite  a  too  familiar  acquaintance,  for  it  is  a 
shrub  to  be  admired  at  a  distance. 

At  a  path  that  seems  quite  accessible  we 
climb  out  of  the  canon,  and  strike  out  across 
the  hills.     We  stop  for  a  moment's  rest  at  a 


38  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

fence,  and  while  we  are  filling  our  lungs  with 
the  crisp  morning  air  we  see  where  a  spider 
has  industriously  spun  his  web  during  the 
night,  from  a  stalk  of  ragweed  to  the  fence 
corner.  The  dew  has  settled  upon  it  and  each 
silken  thread  stands  out  perfectly,  shining  in 
the  morning  sunshine  like  some  old  jewelry 
made  of  filagree  silver.  You  little  realize, 
you  tiny  spinner  of  silken  fabrics,  how  easily 
your  gauzy  structure  may  be  broken,  and  all 
your  work  come  to  naught;  for  on  the  fence 
a  catbird,  scolding  incessantly,  has  one  eye 
open  for  a  stray  titbit  in  the  shape  of  a  little 
weaver  of  webs,  and  you  may  help  to  make 
him  an  early  breakfast. 

The  meadow  larks  are  sending  out  their 
cheery  "Spring  o'  the  year"  from  fence  rail 
and  covert,  a  song  most  sweet  and  inspiring. 
A  flock  of  blackbirds  goes  sailing  past,  and 
high  overhead  a  killdee's  plaintive  cry  echoes 
over  the  valley.  From  here  we  get  a  beau- 
tiful view  of  the  bay  and  the  Golden  Gate, 
and  in  the  far  distance  the  dome  of  Mount 
Tamalpais  rises  above  the  clouds. 

The  ferryboats  from  Oakland,  Berkeley, 
Alameda,  and  Sausalito  are  plying  their  cease- 
less traffic  from  mole  to  mole.     White-sailed 


CANON  AND  HILLSIDE 


CANON   AND    HILLSIDE  41 

ships  from  foreign  countries,  outward  bound 
with  the  tide,  conveyed  by  little  bustling  tugs, 
look  like  monster  white-winged  gulls ;  and 
somber-hued  gunboats,  their  portholes  bris- 
tling with  deadly  engines  of  war,  strain  at 
their  cables.  It  is  an  inspiring  sight,  and, 
turning  aw^ay  with  reluctance,  we  circle  the 
hill  to  Cragmont  Heights,  stopping  to  rest 
on  the  rocky  summit  that  overlooks  the  valley. 

To  our  right  in  North  Brae  rises  a  massive 
pile  of  granite,  known  as  "Indian  Rock."  It 
marks  the  resting  place  of  a  number  of  Indian 
warriors  who  once  roamed  the  surrounding 
hills,  and  is  a  fitting  monument  to  this  once 
noble  race. 

This  is  the  time  of  year  when  the  birds  set 
up  housekeeping;  and  such  debonair  wooers 
the  male  birds  are!  Dressed  in  their  gay 
attire,  they  display  it  to  the  best  advantage 
before  the  fair  sex.  Is  there  anything  so 
interesting  or  so  amusing  as  bird  courtship? 
The  rollicking  song  of  the  male,  an  exhibition 
of  his  vocal  powers  worthy  of  a  virtuoso,  is 
accompanied  by  the  most  comical  gymnastics 
— bowing,  scraping,  and  side-stepping  like  a 
dancing-master;  all  of  which,  I  am  sure,  is 
highly  appreciated  by  the  demure  little  lady. 


42  BYWAYS  AROUxXD  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

1  have  seen  birds  courting  in  the  stately  figures 
of  the  minuet,  crossing  over  and  back,  bowing 
and  curtsying,  in  a  dignified  manner.  Listen 
to  the  meadow  lark  as  he  pours  out  his  heart 
in  a  love  song  to  his  mate.  As  near  as  I  can 
understand  him  he  is  saying,  "Spring  is  here, 
my  dear,  my  dear,"  and  in  a  lower  tone,  "Let's 
build  a  nest."  When  such  an  ardent  wooer 
lays  siege  to  my  lady,  using  such  exquisite 
music  to  further  his  suit,  she  must  have  a 
heart  of  stone  that  would  not  quickly  capitu- 
late to  his  amour. 

The  bobolink,  that  little  minstrel  of  the 
marshes,  teeters  up  and  down  on  a  swaying 
cattail,  and  flirts  most  scandalously,  as  he 
calls  to  his  lady  love:  "What  a  pink,  what  a 
pink,  little  minx,  little  minx!  You're  a  dear, 
dear,  dear." 

But  we  cannot  stay  to  spy  upon  such  love 
scenes,  and  we  strike  out  on  the  trail  for  home, 
after  listening  with  pleasure,  as  well  as  profit, 
to  these  feathered  musicians. 


IT  was  on  February  22,  Washington's 
Birthday,  that  Hal  and  I  started  in  the 
early  morning  from  Berkeley,  for  a  trip  to 
Wild-cat  Canon.  The  birds  are  singing  their 
Te  Deum  to  the  morning  sun.  The  Cali- 
fornia partridges  run  along  the  path  ahead 
of  us,  their  waving  crests  bobbing  up  and 
down  as  they  scurry  out  of  sight  under  the 
bushes,  seldom  taking  wing,  but  depending  on 
their  sturdy  little  legs  to  take  them  out  of 
harm's  way.  A  cotton-tail,  disturbed  in  his 
hiding,  darts  away,  bounding  from  side  to 
side  like  a  rubber  ball,  as  if  expecting  a  shot 
to  overtake  him  before  he  can  get  safely  to 
cover.  He  need  not  fear,  as  we  have  no  more 
deadly  weapon  than  a  camera,  though  we 
should  certainly  train  that  upon  him  if  he  but 
gave  us  a  chance.     High  overhead  we  hear 


40  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

the  clarion  honk,  honk  of  wild  geese,  cleaving 
the  air  in  drag-shaped  column,  while  the  dew 
on  the  grass  dances  and  sparkles  in  the  sun- 
shine like  glittering  diamonds. 

After  a  hard  climb  we  reach  the  top  of 
the  hill,  and  look  down  at  the  town  just  awak- 
ening into  life,  and  out  across  the  waters  of 
the  bay  partly  hidden  by  the  blanket  of  fog 
rolling  in  from  the  ocean. 

Did  you  ever  stand  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill 
in  the  early  morning,  when  the  eastern  sky 
is  beginning  to  put  on  its  morning  robe  of 
variegated  colors,  with  all  the  blended  shades 
of  an  artist's  palette,  and  watch  the  town, 
nestling  in  the  valley  at  your  feet,  wake  up 
after  its  night  of  slumber?  Here  a  chimney 
sends  its  spiral  of  blue  smoke  straight  in  air; 
then  another,  and  another,  like  the  smoke  of 
Indian  scouts  signaling  to  their  tribes.  The 
lights  in  the  windows  go  out,  one  by  one;  the 
sharp  blast  of  a  whistle  cuts  the  air,  the  clang 
of  a  bell  peals  out,  the  rumble  of  a  wagon  is 
heard,  and  the  street  cars  begin  their  clatter 
and  clang.  All  this  comes  floating  up  to  you 
on  the  still  morning  air,  until  an  ever-increas- 
ing crescendo  of  sounds  is  borne  in  upon  you, 
telling  that  the  town  has  awakened  from  its 


WILD-CAT  CANON 


47 


nap,  stretched  itself  like  a  drowsy  giant,  and 
is  ready  once  more  to  grapple  with  its  various 
problems. 

We  pass  a  grove  of  tall  eucalyptus  trees  on 
our  left,  their  rugged  trunks  like  an  army  of 
tattered,  unkempt  giants.  From  the  brink  of 
the  old  stone  quarry,  we  gaze  down  into  its 
prisonlike  depths,  the  perpendicular  walls 
looking  as  if  they  had  been  carved  out  of  solid 
rock  to  hold  some  pri- 
meval malefactor;  then 
we  descend  the  hill  on 
the  other  side  to  the 
caiion. 

The  view  on  every 
side  is  magnificent.  Ris- 
ing out  of  the  canon,  on 
the  farther  side,  the 
rounded  domes  of  the 
hills,  clothed  in  velvet 
green,  roll  from  one  to 
another  like  huge  waves 
of  the  ocean,  while  far 
to  the  right  old  Grizzly 
stands  majestically 
above  the  others,  its  top 
crowned    with    waving 


THE   BOTTOM    OF   THE   CANON 


48  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

verdure,  like  the  gaudy  headdress  of  some 
mighty  warrior. 

We  descend  into  the  cafion  by  a  well- 
marked  trail,  and  the  shade  of  the  trees  is 
most  grateful  after  our  walk  in  the  sun.  We 
follow  downstream,  where  the  speckled  trout 
lie  hid  in  the  deep  pools,  and  the  song  spar- 
rows sing  their  sweetest,  and  at  last  find  our- 
selves at  the  object  of  our  quest,  opposite  the 
caves. 

There  are  three  or  four  of  these,  large  and 
small,  which  were  used  in  former  times  by 
the  Indians.  We  had  fully  intended  to  climb 
the  face  of  this  almost  perpendicular  clifif,  to 
explore  the  caves,  and  photograph  the  in- 
teriors with  the  aid  of  flashlights,  but  decided 
that  the  climb  was  too  hard,  and  the  ground 
too  wet  and  slippery  for  safety.  As  a  false 
step  or  an  insecure  foothold  would  send  us 
to  the  bottom  with  broken  bones,  if  not  broken 
necks,  we  contented  ourselves  with  photo- 
graphing the  face  of  the  clifif  from  a  safe 
distance. 

Retracing  our  steps,  crossing  the  stream, 
and  making  a  long  detour,  we  tried  to  reach 
the  caves  from  above.  It  was  a  hard,  tedious 
climb,  over  rough  and  jagged  rocks,  but  after 


WILD-CAT  CANON  51 

nearly  an  hour's  struggle,  slipping  and  sliding, 
holding  on  to  every  shrub  that  offered  the 
semblance  of  a  grip,  we  reached  the  top. 
Then,  by  a  more  tedious  and  dangerous 
descent,  we  reached  a  large  flat  rock  just 
above  the  caves.  Crawling  out  upon  the  rock, 
and  venturing  as  near  the  edge  as  we  dared, 
we  found  it  almost  as  impossible  to  reach  the 
caves  from  above  as  from  below,  and  finally 
gave  up  the  attempt. 

But  we  were  well  repaid  for  our  rough 
climb,  for  a  more  magnificent  panorama 
could  hardly  be  found.  We  looked  for  miles 
up  and  down  the  canon,  in  either  direction,  so 
far  below  us  that  the  head  grew  dizzy.  The 
trees  followed  the  tortuous  course  of  the 
cafion,  and  two  men  that  we  saw  far  below 
us  looked  like  pigmies. 

Far  above  us  a  sparrow  hawk  circled  above 
the  trees,  and  we  were  told  that  an  owl  had 
a  nest  somewhere  among  the  rocks.  We  did 
not  look  for  it,  but  certainly  nothing  but  an 
owl,  or  some  other  bird,  could  ever  hope  to 
scale  the  rocks  successfully.  We  rested  a  long 
time  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  enjoying  the  view, 
and  regaining  our  wind  for  the  climb  to  the 
top.    This  we  accomplished  without  accident, 


52  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

save  for  the  few  scratches  incident  to  such 
work.  It  was  the  season  when  the  flowering 
currant  puts  on  its  gala  dress  of  pink  blossoms, 
and  the  banks  of  the  creek  for  a  long  distance 
were  like  a  flower  garden.  On  the  higher 
ground  the  beautiful  Zygadene  plant,  with  its 
pompon  of  white  star-shaped  flowers,  and 
long  graceful  leaves,  grew  in  profusion. 
Maidenhair  ferns,  the  only  variety  we  saw, 
sent  forth  their  delicate  streamers  from  every 
nook  and  cranny,  forming  a  carpet  of  ex- 
quisite texture. 

When  we  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  on 
our  return,  and  looked  down  upon  Berkeley, 
the  sun  was  obscured  by  a  high  fog,  and  a 
cold  wind  came  up  to  us  from  the  bay,  making 
us  step  lively  to  keep  the  blood  circulating. 
We  reached  home  late  in  the  afternoon,  worn, 
and  leg-w^eary,  but  well  satisfied  with  our 
holiday  in  Wild-cat  Canon  and  the  beautiful 
Berkeley  hills. 


Autu   m    n        Days! 


Autumn        Da  y    s 


WHEN    bright-hued   leaves   from   tree 
and  thicket  fall, 
And   on   the   ground   their   autumn   carpet 
strew ; 
And  overhead  the  wild  geese  honking  call, 
In  wedge-shaped  column,   high   amid   the 
blue; 


When  from  the  sagebrush,  and  from  moun- 
tain high, 
The  quaiTs  soft  note  reechoes  far  and  wide; 
When  hunter  moon  hangs  crescent  in  the  sky, 
And  wild  deer  range  on  rugged  mountain 
side; 


56  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

When  old  primeval  instincts,  nature  born, 

Stir  in  the  hunter's  blood  with  lust  to  kill. 
And  drive  him  forth  with  dog  and  gun,  at 
morn, 
To  sheltered  blind,  or  runway  'neath  the 
hill- 


All  these  proclaim  the  glorious  autumn  days. 
When  Nature  spends  her  wealth  with  lavish 
hand, 

And  o'er  the  landscape  spreads  a  purple  haze. 
And  waves  her  magic  scepter  o'er  the  land. 


Ai^Sijd: rthe^Carrip  Rre 


'S-J'.i^^  ' '  ^ 


ire 


DID  you  ever  camp  in  the  woods  on  a 
moonlight  night  and  listen  to  nature's 
voices?  Have  you  seen  the  light  flicker 
through  the  trees,  and  glisten  on  the  little 
brook,  its  ripples  breaking  into  molten  silver 
as  it  glides  away  between  banks  o'erhung 
with  fern  and  trailing  grasses? 

Did  you  ever  sit  by  the  camp  fire  after 
a  day's  climb  over  rocks  and  treacherous 
trails,  or  after  whipping  the  stream  up  and 
down  for  the  speckled  beauties,  and  watch 
the  flames  climb  higher  and  higher,  the 
sparks  flying  upward  as  you  throw  on  the  dry 
pine  branches,  and  listen  to  the  trees  over- 
head, swayed  by  the  gentle  breeze,  croon  their 
drowsy  lullaby?  Thus  were  Hal  and  I 
camped  one  night  in  June,  at  Ben  Lomond, 


60  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

in  the  Santa  Cruz  mountains,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  glory  of  that  moonlight 
night. 

There  is  a  delightful,  comforting  feeling 
about  it,  and  somehow  it  always  reminds  me 
of  a  theater,  one  of  God's  own  handiwork, 
whose  dome  is  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  stud- 
ded with  its  millions  of  stars.  The  silver 
moon  just  peeping  over  the  mountain,  throw- 
ing into  grand  relief  its  rugged  seam-scarred 
sides,  the  calcium  light;  the  pine  trees  with 
waving  plumes,  rising  file  on  file  like 
shrouded  specters,  form  the  stage  setting;  the 
mountain  brook,  on  whose  bosom  the  moon 
leaves  a  streak  of  molten  silver,  the  footlights; 
while  all  the  myriad  voices  of  the  night,  har- 
moniously blended,  are  the  orchestra.  Even 
the  birds  in  their  nests,  awakened  by  the 
firelight,  join  their  sleepy  chirpings  to  the 
chorus. 

It  has  something  primeval  about  it,  and 
one  almost  expects  to  see  Robin  Hood  or 
Friar  Tuck  step  out  into  the  firelight.  The 
camp  fire  carries  one  back  to  the  days  when 
the  red  men  roamed  the  woods,  sat  round 
their  camp  fires,  listened  to  the  talking  leaves, 
and  boasted  of  their  prowess. 


AROUND  THE  CAMP   FIRE  61 

What  sweet  memories  linger  round  the 
camp  fire,  where  the  song  of  the  cricket  brings 
to  us  recollections  of  boyhood's  days  on  the 
farm,  when  we  listened  to  the  little  minstrel, 
joined  to  the  voice  of  the  katydids,  as  their 
elfin  music  came  floating  up  from  field  and 
meadow  in  a  pulsating  treble  chorus.  Dear 
little  black  musician  of  my  childhood!  Your 
note  still  lingers  in  my  memory  and  brings 
before  me  the  faces  of  those  long  since  de- 
parted, who  sat  around  the  fireplace  and 
listened  to  your  cheery  song.  There  was  an 
unwritten  law  among  us  boys  never  to  kill  a 
cricket,  and  we  kept  it  as  sacredly  as  was 
kept  the  law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 

There  is  another  side  to  the  camp  fire:  the 
genial  comradery  of  its  cheery  blaze,  after 
the  supper  is  over  and  the  pipes  lit,  which 
invites  stories  of  the  day's  catch.  The  speckled 
beauties  are  exhibited,  lying  side  by  side  on 
the  damp  moss  at  the  bottom  of  the  basket. 
The  tale  is  told  of  repeated  casts,  under  the 
overhanging  boughs,  in  the  shadow  of  the  big 
rock,  where  the  water  swirls  and  rushes:  how 
the  brown  hackle  went  skittering  over  the 
pool,  or  dropped  as  lightly  as  thistledown 
on  the  edge  of  the  rifile,  the  sudden  rise  to  the 


62  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAX  FRANCISCO  BAY 

fly,  the  rush  for  deep  water,  of  the  strain  on 
the  rod  when  it  throbbed  like  a  thing  of  life, 
sending  a  delicious  tingle  to  the  finger  tips, 
the  successful  battle,  and  the  game  brought 
to  the  net  at  last. 

The  delicious  odor  of  the  cofifee  bubbling 
in  the  pot,  the  speckled  beauties,  still  side  by 
side,  sizzling  in  the  pan,  all  combine  to  tempt 
the  appetite  of  an  epicure. 

The  camp  fire  has  strange  and  varied  com- 
panions. Men  from  all  walks  of  life  are 
lured  by  its  cheery  blaze.  Here  sits  the  noted 
divine  in  search  of  recreation,  and,  inciden- 
tally, material  for  future  sermonic  use;  a 
prominent  physician,  glad  to  escape  for  a 
season  the  complaining  ills,  real  or  imaginary, 
of  his  many  patients';  a  judge,  whose  benign 
expression,  as  he  straightens  the  leaders  in  his 
flybook,  or  carefully  wipes  the  moisture  from 
his  split  bamboo  rod,  suggests  nothing  of 
justice  dispensed  with  an  iron  hand;  and 
Emanuel,  our  Mexican  guide,  who  content- 
edly inhales  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette  as 
he  lounges  in  the  warmth  of  the  blazing  camp 
fire,  dreaming  of  his  seiiorita. 

Who  can  withstand  the  call  of  the  camp 
fire,  when  the  sap  begins  to  run  in  the  trees, 


AROUND  THE   CAMP    FIRE  63 

and  the  buds  swell  with  growing  life?  The 
meadow  larks  call  from  the  pasture,  and 
overhead  the  killdee  pipes  his  plaintive  call. 
One  longs  to  lie  in  the  sunshine  and  watch 
the  clouds  go  trailing  over  the  valley.  The 
smell  of  the  woods  and  the  smoke  of  the  camp 
fire  are  in  the  air,  and  that  old  restless  longing 
steals  over  him.  It  is  a  malady  that  no  pre- 
scription compounded  by  the  hand  of  a  physi- 
cian can  alleviate.  Its  only  antidote  is  a  liberal 
dose  of  Mother  Nature's  remedy,  "God's  Out- 
of-Doors." 

What  changes  the  close  contact  of  nature 
makes  in  her  loving  children!  You  would 
hardly  know  these  men  dressed  in  khaki  suits 
and  flannel  shirts,  smoking  their  evening  pipes 
around  the  camp  fire,  as  the  same  men  who 
attend  receptions  and  banquets  in  the  city, 
dressed  in  conventional  evening  clothes;  and 
I  dare  say  they  enjoy  the  camp  fire,  with  its 
homely  fare  and  cheery  blaze,  far  more 
than  electric-lighted  parlors  and  costly 
catering. 

But  the  camp  fire  wanes.  A  stick  burns 
through  and  falls  asunder,  sending  up  a 
shower  of  sparks.  Charred  embers  only  re- 
main.    We  spread  our  blankets  with  knap- 


64  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

sack  for  pillow.  With  no  sound  of  traffic  to 
mar  our  slumbers,  soothed  by  the  wind  in 
the  branches,  and  the  gentle  song  of  the  moun- 
tain brook  for  a  lullaby,  we  are  wooed  to 
sleep  on  the  broad  bosom  of  Mother  Earth. 


Trout  Fi  s  h  i  n 
B  e  r  k  e 1 e^ 


^  in 
ftill 


the 


Trout  Fis  h  i  n 
B  e r ke 1 ^y 


^  in 
ftiU 


th 


SINCE  the  days  when  Izaak  Walton  wrote 
The  Complete  Angler,  men  have  emu- 
lated his  example,  and  gone  forth  with  rod 
and  reel  to  tempt  the  finny  tribe  from  dashing 
mountain  brook  or  quiet  river. 

We,  being  his  disciples,  thought  to  follow 
his  example,  and  spend  the  day  in  the  Berkeley 
hills  whipping  the  stream  for  the  wary  brook 
trout. 

April  first  is  the  open  season  for  trout  in 
California,  but  owing  to  the  scarcity  of  rain 
we  feared  the  water  in  the  brook  would  be 
too  low  for  good  fishing.  Providence  favored 
us,  however,  with  a  steady  downpour  on 
Wednesday,  which  put  new  hope  in  our  hearts, 
and  water  in  the  stream;  and  we  decided  to 


68  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

try  our  luck  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  take 
what  came  to  our  hooks  as  a  "gift  of  the 
gods." 

Accordingly,  we  met  at  the  Ferry  Building, 
fully  equipped,  and  took  the  boat  across  San 
Francisco  Bay,  thence  by  cars  to  Claremont, 
and  from  there  struck  into  the  hills.  The 
wind  blew  cold  from  the  bay,  having  a  clear 
sweep  up  through  the  Golden  Gate,  but  as 
soon  as  we  began  to  make  the  ascent  our  coats 
became  a  burden. 

It  was  a  hard,  tedious  climb  over  the  first 
range  of  hills,  but  upon  reaching  the  summit 
and  looking  down  into  the  valley  we  felt 
well  repaid  for  our  trouble,  as  we  gazed  in 
awed  delight  upon  the  magnificent  view 
spread  out  below  us  like  a  panorama. 

The  valley  stretches  out  in  either  direction 
far  below  us,  as  if  to  ofifer  an  uninterrupted 
flow  for  the  mountain  brook  through  which 
it  passes.  We  counted  twelve  peaks  surround- 
ing the  valley,  their  rounded  domes  glowing 
with  the  beautiful  California  poppy,  like  a 
covering  of  a  cloth  of  gold,  while  below  the 
peaks  the  sloping  sides  looked  like  green 
velvet.  Here  and  there  pine  groves  dotted 
the  landscape,  while  madrones   and  manza- 


TROUT  FISHING  IN  THE  BERKELEY  HILLS 


69 


nitas   stood   out  vividly   against   their   dark- 
green  background. 

Orinda  Creek,  the  object  of  our  quest,  runs 
through  this  beautiful  valley,  shut  in  on  each 
side  by  the  hills.  Along  the  trail  leading  to 
the  stream  blue  and  white  lupines  grow  in 
profusion,  giving  a  delicate  amethyst  tinge  to 
the  landscape.  Wild  honeysuckle,  with  its 
pinkish-red  blossoms,  is  on  every  side  and  the 
California  azalea  fringes  both  banks  of  the 
stream,  its  rich  foliage  almost  hidden  by 
magnificent  clusters 
of  white  and  yellow 
flowers,  which  send 
out  a  delightful, 
spicy  fragrance,  that 
can  be  detected  far 
back  from  the 
stream. 

The  meadow  larks 
called  from  the  hill- 
side their  quaint 
"Spring  o'  the  year," 
the  song  sparrows 
sang  their  tinkling 
melody  from  the  live 
oaks,  catbirds  mewed 


THE    TROUT  S     PARADISE 


70  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

from  the  thicket,  and  occasionally  a  linnet 
sang  its  rollicking  solo  as  it  performed  queer 
acrobatic  feats  while  on  the  wing. 

Ahead  of  us  a  blue  jay  kept  close  watch 
over  our  movements,  but  at  last  decided  that 
we  are  harmless,  and  with  a  last  shriek  of 
defiance  flew  away  to  pour  out  his  vitupera- 
tions on  other  hapless  wanderers. 

Adjusting  our  rods,  and  baiting  our  hooks 
with  salmon  roe,  we  crept  down  to  where  a 
little  fall  sent  the  water  swirling  around  a 
rock,  making  a  deep  pool,  and  an  ideal  place 
for  trout.  Dropping  our  lines  into  the  rapids, 
we  let  the  bait  float  down  close  to  the  rock  in 
the  deep  shadows.  As  soon  as  it  struck  the 
riffle  there  was  a  flash  of  silver,  and  the  game 
was  hooked.  Away  he  went,  the  reel  hum- 
ming a  merry  tune  as  he  raced  back  and  forth 
across  the  pool,  the  rod  bent  like  a  coach 
whip,  the  strain  on  the  line  sending  a  de- 
lightful tingle  to  our  finger  tips.  But  he  soon 
tired  of  the  unequal  contest,  and  was  brought 
safely  to  the  landing  net.  He  was  by  no  means 
a  large  fish,  as  game  fish  are  reckoned,  but  to 
my  mind  it  is  not  always  the  largest  fish  that 
gives  the  keenest  sport. 

From  one  pool  to  another  we  passed,  wet- 


FISHING    FOR    BROOK    TROUT 


TROUT  FISHING  IX  THE  BERKELEY  HILLS         73 

ting  a  line  in  each  with  fair  success,  scram- 
bling over  logs  and  lichen-covered  rocks, 
wading  from  one  side  of  the  stream  to  the 
other,  until  the  lengthening  shadows  warned 
us  to  wind  in  our  lines  and  start  for  home. 
Well  satisfied  we  were  with  the  thirty-two 
trout  reposing  at  the  bottom  of  our  basket. 

Our  long  tramp  and  the  salt  sea  air  had 
made  us  ravenously  hungry,  and  the  sand- 
wiches that  provident  wives  had  prepared  for 
us  were  dug  out  of  capacious  pockets  and 
eaten  wath  a  relish  that  an  epicure  might 
covet.  I  shall  never  forget  the  trip  back. 
Night  overtook  us  before  we  were  out  of  the 
first  valley,  the  ascent  was  very  steep,  and  we 
had  to  stop  every  few  rods  to  get  our  wind. 

At  last  we  reached  the  summit  of  Grizzly 
Peak,  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-nine  feet 
above  sea  level,  while  to  our  right  Bald  Peak, 
nineteen  hundred  and  thirty  feet  high,  loomed 
up  against  the  sky.  The  path  on  Grizzly  was 
so  narrow^  we  had  to  walk  single  file,  and  a 
false  step  would  have  sent  us  rolling  down 
hundreds  of  feet. 

The  view — although  seen  in  vague  outline 
— was  magnificent.  Berkeley  and  Oakland 
lay  seventeen  hundred   feet  below  us,   their 


74  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

twinkling  lights  glowing  through  the  dark- 
ness like  fireflies.  Out  on  San  Francisco  Bay 
the  lights  flashed  from  the  mastheads  of  ships 
at  anchor  or  from  brightly  lighted  ferryboats 
plying  from  mole  to  mole,  while  far  to  the 
left,  Lake  Merritt  lay  like  a  gray  sheet  amid 
the  shadows.  In  the  middle  distance  ofif 
Yerba  Buena  Island  two  United  States  gun- 
boats were  at  anchor,  one  of  them  sending 
the  rays  of  its  powerful  searchlight  here  and 
there  across  the  water,  and  making  a  veritable 
path  of  silver  far  out  across  the  bay. 

Jack  rabbits  and  cotton-tails  scurried  across 
our  path  and  dodged  into  thickets.  An  owl 
flapped  lazily  over  our  heads  and  sailed  away 
down  the  valley,  evidently  on  his  nocturnal 
hunting.  But  we  had  little  time  or  inclina- 
tion to  give  to  these  mountain  creatures,  as 
we  had  to  pay  strict  attention  to  our  footing. 

The  last  descent  proved  to  be  the  hardest, 
for  the  grade  was  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a 
house,  but  we  finally  succeeded  in  scrambling 
down,  and  at  last  reached  the  grove  surround- 
ing the  Greek  Amphitheater;  then  home, 
footsore  and  weary,  but  happy  with  our  after- 
noon's outing  on  the  trout  streams  in  the 
Berkeley  Hills. 


.^^' 


WE  stand  in  awe  at  the  grandeur  of  the 
mountains,  thrusting  their  snow- 
capped summits  into  the  clouds,  and  it  is  in- 
deed a  glorious  sight;  but  the  ocean,  with  its 
ceaseless  motion,  its  wonderful  rising  and 
falling  of  the  tides,  and  its  constant  and  mys- 
terious moaning,  is  not  to  be  outdone  in 
sublimity,  and  ofifers  a  keen  delight  to  the 
lover  of  nature.  Its  sands  and  waters  are 
ever  changing.  Its  rugged  coast,  with  rocks 
scattered  in  wild  profusion,  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  spots  in  all  the  world. 

A  piece  of  wreckage  is  thrown  upon  the 
beach,  and  you  wonder  what  dire  disaster 
happened  far  out  at  sea,  and  if  the  rest  of  the 
ship  went  to  the  bottom  with  all  on  board. 
But  take  it  home,  let  it  dry  in  the  sun,  then 
place  it  on  your  open  grate  fire,  and  as  you 
watch  the  iridescent  blaze  curl  up  the  chim- 


78  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

ney,  dream  dreams,  and  weave  strange  fancies 
in  the  light  of  your  driftwood  fire. 

A  day  at  the  seashore  is  one  of  pleasure,  a 
delightful  change  from  woods  and  uplands 
to  rocks  and  rushing  waters.  Some  prefer 
the  smooth  stretch  of  sandy  beach,  where  one 
may  lie  at  luxurious  ease  in  the  warm  sand, 
and  listen  to  the  waves  lapping  along  shore, 
or,  discarding  shoes  and  stockings,  wade  out 
until  the  white-capped  waves,  like  policemen, 
drive  you  back  from  encroaching  upon  old 
Neptune's  domain.  But  we  prefer  the  rocky 
clififs,  combined  with  the  sandy  beach,  and 
such  a  place  is  Land's  End,  near  the  Golden 
Gate,  in  San  Francisco. 

We  started  down  the  steep  incline,  strewn 
with  jagged  rocks,  to  follow  the  narrow  path 
along  the  cliffs.  But  our  outing  was  marred 
by  meeting  two  men  toiling  up  the  path  along 
the  narrow  way,  carrying  an  unfortunate 
sightseer  who  had  ventured  too  near  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  and  fallen  into  the  ocean.  Only 
the  prompt  action  of  a  friend  who  scrambled 
down  the  rocks  at  the  risk  of  his  life  saved 
him  from  a  watery  grave.  His  resuscitation 
must  have  been  painful,  judging  by  his 
agonizing  groans,  but  the  ambulance  officers 


ON   THE   BEACH 


79 


had  been  summoned  and  the  unfortunate 
sufferer  was  cared  for  at  the  hospital. 

The  incident  served  to  make  us  more  care- 
ful, and  at  the  narrowest  place  in  the  path  we 
used  the  utmost  caution,  for  the  rocks  below 
rose  up  like  dragon's  teeth,  ready  to  impale  us 
if  we  should  make  a  false  step — and  that  white 
drawn  face  haunted  us  like  a  specter. 

The  path  along  the  ocean  is  a  narrow  and 
tortuous     one,     run- 


ning about  halfway 
between  the  water 
and  the  top  of  the 
cliff.  Great  granite 
rocks  rise  up  like 
giants  to  dispute  our 
passage,  but  by  nu- 
merous twistings  the 
path  skirts  their  base, 
or  wriggles  snake- 
like over  the  top. 

Hundreds  of  feet 
below,  the  waves 
come  rolling  in  from 
the  ocean,  dashing 
with  a  giant's  fury 
against     the     rocks, 


THEY    HAVE    STOOD    THE    STORMS 
OF   CENTUKJES 


80  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

and  shattering  themselves  into  white  spray 
that  is  tossed  high  in  air,  like  thousands  of 
white  fingers  seeking  to  clutch  the  granite 
barrier.  Then  receding  like  a  roaring  lion 
baffled  of  its  prey,  it  gathers  new  strength,  and 
flings  itself  again  and  again  against  the  rocks, 
like  a  gladiator  striving  for  the  mastery. 

Here,  in  a  massive  pile  of  rocks,  is  a  deep, 
dark  cavern,  evidently  worn  by  the  action  of 
the  waves  that  have  pounded  against  it  for 
centuries.  Looking  out  upon  the  ocean,  we 
see  a  wave  mightier  than  all  the  others  sweep- 
ing onward,  as  if  challenging  the  rocks  to 
mortal  combat,  its  mighty  curving  crest  white 
and  seething  with  foam,  hissing  like  a  serpent. 
On  it  comes,  sweeping  over  half-submerged 
rocks,  growling  in  its  fury,  sublime  in  its 
towering  majesty,  awful  in  its  giant's  strength. 

Nearing  the  rocks,  it  seems  to  hang  sus- 
pended for  a  moment,  then  hurls  itself  as  from 
a  catapult  against  the  barrier  with  a  sound 
like  thunder,  filling  the  cavern  to  its  utmost, 
causing  the  ground  to  fairly  tremble  with  the 
impact,  and  sending  the  white  spray  high  up 
the  face  of  the  clifif,  to  be  scattered  like  chaff 
before  the  breeze.  And  the  old  rock  that  has 
stood  the  storms  of  ages,   looks  down  at  its 


SEA   GULL   ROCK 


ON  THE  BEACH  83 

beaten  and  broken  enemy,  swirling,  seething, 
and  snarling  at  its  feet,  and  fairly  laughs  at 
its  puny  efforts. 

Here  we  venture  to  a  place  that  seems  ac- 
cessible in  order  to  procure  a  photograph. 
It  was  a  foolhardy  undertaking,  and  we  knew 
it.  But  fortune  favored  us,  and  the  much- 
desired  picture  w^as  secured.  But  thus  will 
men  gamble  with  death  to  gratify  a  whim, 
for  a  false  step  or  sudden  vertigo  would  have 
sent  us  crashing  on  to  the  jagged  rocks  below. 

Overhead  the  sea  gulls  beat  the  air  on  tire- 
less wings,  or  skim  close  to  the  water,  intent 
upon  their  ceaseless  search  for  food.  Far  out 
the  lighthouse  stands  anchored  to  the  rocks, 
the  waves  dashing  against  it,  as  if  to  tear  it 
from  its  firm  foundation.  But  it  defies  them 
all,  and  sends  the  cheery  beacon  light  over 
the  waters,  to  guide  the  stately  ships  between 
the  portals  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

Directly  opposite,  the  white  buildings  of 
Point  Bonita  stand  out  against  the  green  of 
the  hills;  strongly  fortified,  and  ready  at  all 
times  to  defend  the  entrance  to  San  Fran- 
cisco Bay  against  warlike  intruders. 

Two  hardy  fishermen  have  ventured  out  at 
low  tide  to  a  large  rock  and  are  casting  their 


S4>  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

lines  into  the  boiling  waters  for  rock-cod  or 
porgies,  while  the  Italian  fishing  boats,  with 
their  queer  striped  sails,  form  a  striking  con- 
trast to  the  massive  steamboats,  with  smoke 
trailing  from  their  twin  funnels,  that  are  out- 
ward bound  for  China  or  Japan. 

Farther  on,  where  the  rocks  descend  to  the 
sea  level,  we  roam  the  beach  and  gather  sea 
shells,  starfish,  and  sea  urchins;  and  by  a 
shallow  pool  we  stop  to  watch  the  scarlet 
fringes  of  the  sea  anemones,  waving  back  and 
forth  with  the  action  of  the  tide.  Barnacles 
cover  the  top  of  every  rock  that  the  tide 
reaches,  and  the  long,  blackish,  snakelike 
seaweed  is  strewn  along  the  beach. 

We  watch  the  tide  come  creeping  in,  each 
succeeding  wave  running  a  little  farther  up 
the  beach  and  driving  us  back  with  relentless 
energy  from  its  rightful  possessions. 

The  sun  sinks  down  in  golden  splendor 
behind  the  ocean's  rim,  leaving  a  track  of 
molten  gold  that  tips  as  with  a  halo  the  edges 
of  the  dancing  waves.  We  turn  our  faces 
homeward,  with  a  last,  lingering  look  at  the 
majestic  expanse  of  blue  rolling  waters,  and 
ever  in  our  ears  sounds  the  ceaseless  moaning 
of  the  ocean. 


•  Jr  -  ri^ 


Muir  Woods 


Muir  Woods 


JUNE,  to  me,  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
months  in  California — if  any  of  them 
can  be  set  apart  and  called  more  perfect  than 
another — for  June  is  a  month  of  moods. 

If  you  are  an  Easterner  you  would  abandon 
your  proposed  picnic  party,  upon  rising  in  the 
morning,  for  fear  of  rain,  and,  being  a  tender- 
foot, you  would  be  justified,  for  the  clouds — - 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  the  high  fog — 
give  every  indication  of  a  shower.  But  an 
old  Californian  would  tell  you  to  take  no 
thought  of  appearances,  and  to  leave  your 
umbrella  and  raincoat  at  home,  for  this  is 
one  of  nature's  "blufTs" ;  by  ten  o'clock  the  sun 
will  be  shining  brightly,  and  the  fog  dispersed 
under  its  warm  rays. 

Then  pack  your  lunch  basket,  don  your 
khaki  suit,  and  strike  out  on  the  trail,  while 


88  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

the  dew  still  twinkles  on  the  grass  blades  like 
cut  diamonds,  and  the  birds  are  singing  their 
Te  Deum  to  the  morning  sun. 

It  was  on  just  such  a  day  that  we  set  out  on 
a  trip  to  Muir  Woods  and  the  giant  sequoias, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  in  the  State. 
From  Mill  Valley  the  climb  is  a  steep  one, 
passing  the  picturesque  ruins  of  an  old  mill 
erected  in  1843.  We  come  to  a  sort  of 
corduroy  path,  where  some  enterprising  land- 
owner has  placed  logs  across  the  trail,  with 
the  object  of  facilitating  travel.  It  is  not  a 
very  decided  improvement  on  nature,  how- 
ever, for  the  steps  are  too  far  apart  for 
comfort. 

Summer  cottages  are  scattered  along  the 
trail,  perched  on  the  hillside,  and  placed  in 
the  most  advantageous  position  to  gain  a  view 
of  the  bay,  or  on  slightly  higher  ground, 
where  they  peek  over  the  tops  of  the  trees 
into  the  valley  below. 

After  a  stifif  climb  we  reach  the  top  of  the 
last  range  of  hills  and  begin  our  descent  into 
the  valley,  where  Muir  Woods  nestles  between 
the  hills  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Tamalpais,  in 
the  beautiful  Sequoia  Canon.  We  look  away 
to  the  right  and  can  see  the  heavy  clouds  en- 


MUIR   WOODS 


89 


velop  the  summit  (3f  the  mountain,  but  the 
highest  stands  above  the  clouds,  and  the  sun 
touches  its  stately  crest  with  golden  splendor. 

The    forest    always     has    a 
weird    fascination    for   r 
with  its  soft  whispering 
as  if  the  trees  were  con- 
fiding   secrets    to    each 
other.  One  can  become 
intimately  acquainted 
with  it,  and  learn  to 
love    its    quiet    soli- 
tude, only  by  living 
in    or    near    it,    and 
wandering    at    will 
through     its     track- 
less,  leaf-carpeted 
aisles.       Your     eyes 
must    be    trained    to 
constant      watching, 
you  must  learn  to  be 
a    close    observer,    to 
note  the  flowers,  vines, 
and  tangled  shrubbery 
that   are   seldom   men 
tioned  by  botanists,  an 
your  ear  must  be  tuned 


COMRADES 


90  BYWAYS  AROUND   SAN    FRANCISCO   BAY 

catch  the  elfin  music  that  is  heard  within  the 
confines  of  the  forest.  You  cannot  travel  a 
rod  under  the  trees  without  being  watched  by 
the  small  forest  inhabitants,  who  regard  you 
with  suspicion,  and  peer  at  you  from  under 
decaying  logs  or  leafy  covert  like  self- 
appointed  detectives. 

Muir  Woods  comprises  nearly  three  hun- 
dred acres,  the  principal  trees  being  laurel, 
fir,  oak,  redwood,  and  madrone,  of  which  the 
giant  redwood  (Sequoia)  predominates.  The 
redwoods  in  Muir  Woods  are  thousands  of 
years  old,  and  rise  from  two  to  three  hundred 
feet  in  air.  The  bark  is  from  one  to  two  feet 
in  thickness,  of  a  cinnamon  color,  and  the 
base  of  the  largest  trees  from  twenty-five  to 
thirty  feet  in  diameter.  A  clear  and  cold 
mountain  brook  runs  through  the  forest,  and 
ferns  grow  in  rich  profusion  along  its  margin, 
some  of  them  reaching  a  height  of  six  feet. 

One  cannot  but  note  the  profound  quiet  of 
the  forest,  as  if  these  mighty  trees  that  had 
withstood  the  storms  of  centuries  were  afraid 
their  secrets  might  be  wrested  from  them. 

In  some  past  ages  fire  has  sv/ept  through 
the  forest,  laying  some  of  these  giants  low, 
but  other  trees  have  sprung  from  their  charred 


■*fc^5  '^^ 


/"m^J  *'^ 


'\     >>>. 


'i*r<*,.-'»-'  S^  ■ 


W^:.^:^ 


''-:\r^.^-'  ^^ 


AMONG    THE    REDWOODS 


MUIR  WOODS  93 

Stumps,  and  rear  their  straight  trunks  and 
green-crowned  heads  hundreds  of  feet  above 
the  surrounding  foliage.  These  stately  trees 
have  grown  and  flourished  like  Solomon's 
Temple  with  no  sound  of  woodman's  axe  to 
mar  the  quiet  solemnity  of  this  primeval 
forest.  One  stands  in  awe  in  the  presence  of 
these  wonderful  sequoias,  the  greatest  of  trees, 
and  we  converse  in  low  tones,  as  if  standing 
in  the  presence  of  spirits  of  bygone  ages. 

Muir  Woods  was  accepted  by  the  United 
States  government  as  a  national  monument  in 
1908,  by  special  proclamation  of  President 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  and  was  named  in  honor 
of  John  Muir,  the  celebrated  California 
naturalist. 

There  is  no  place  in  California  where  one 
can  more  profitably  spend  a  day  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  wonderful  beauties  of  nature  than 
in  this  grove  of  giant  redwoods. 


WHERE     once     the     Indian's     canoe 
roamed  o'er  the  bay, 
With  silent  motion,  sped  by  warrior's  hand  ; 
The  sea  gulls  wheel  and  turn  in  columns  gray, 
And  on  the  beach  the  miners'  cabins  stand; 

Now,  white-sailed  ships  sail  outward  with  the 
tide. 

The  stately  ocean  liners  lead  the  van; 
And  iron  warships  anchor  side  by  side. 

With  sister  ships  from  China  and  Japan. 


Italian  fishing  boats  with  lateen  sails  go  by. 
To  cast  their  lines  outside  the  Golden  Gate; 

And  ferryboats  their  ceaseless  traffic  ply. 
From  mole  to  mole,  from  early  morn  till 
late. 


98  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

And  so  the  march  of  commerce  takes  its  way, 
And  every  clime  contributes  of  its  store. 

Where  once  the  Indian's  tepee  held  its  sway, 
Now  stands  the  Golden  City  on  the  shore. 


A 


iH.  mm  Town 


IF  you  are  a  tourist,  making  your  first  visit 
to  San  Francisco,  you  will  inquire  at 
once  for  Chinatown,  the  settlement  of  the 
Celestial  Kingdom,  dropped  down,  as  it  were, 
in  the  very  heart  of  a  big  city;  a  locality 
where  you  are  as  far  removed  from  anything 
American  as  if  you  were  in  Hongkong  or 
Foochow.  Chinatown  is  only  about  two 
blocks  wide  by  eight  blocks  long;  yet  in  this 
small  area  from  ten  to  fifteen  thousand 
Chinese  live,  and  cling  with  all  the  tenacity 
of  the  race  to  their  Oriental  customs  and 
native  dress.  They  are  as  clean  as  a  new  pin 
about  their  person,  but  how  they  can  keep  so 
immaculate  amid  such  careless  and  not  over- 
clean  surroundings  is  a  mystery  not  to  be 
solved  by  a  white  man. 

For  a  few  dollars  a  guide  will  conduct  a 


LIBRARY 

PNiVEHSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


102  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

party  through  Chinatown,  and  point  out  all 
the  places  of  interest;  but  we  preferred  to 
act  for  ourselves  in  this  capacity,  and  saunter 
from  place  to  place  as  our  fancy  dictated. 
Stores  of  all  kinds  line  both  sides  of  Grant 
Avenue,  formerly  called  Dupont,  where  all 
kinds  of  Chinese  merchandise  are  displayed 
in  profusion.  At  one  place  we  stopped  to 
examine  some  most  exquisite  ivory  carvings, 
as  delicate  in  tracery  as  frost  on  a  window 
pane.  Next  we  lingered  before  a  shop  where 
the  women  of  our  party  went  into  raptures 
over  the  exquisite  gowns  and  the  beautiful 
needlework  displayed.  Here  are  shown 
padded  silks  of  the  most  delicate  shades,  on 
which  deft  fingers  have  embroidered  the 
ever-present  Chinese  stork  and  cherry  blos- 
soms, as  realistic  as  if  painted  with  an  artist's 
brush. 

That  peculiar  building  just  across  the  way 
is  the  Kow  Nan  Low  Restaurant,  resplendent 
with  dragons  and  lanterns  of  every  shape  and 
size  suspended  above  and  about  the  doorway. 

If  you  are  fond  of  chop  suey,  or  bird's-nest 
pudding,  and  are  not  too  fastidious  as  to  its 
ingredients,  you  may  enjoy  a  dinner  fit  for  a 
mandarin. 


IN   CHINATOWN 


103 


We  stop  before  a  barber  shop  and  watch 
the  queer  process  of  shaving  the  head  and 
braiding  the  queue.  The  barber  does  not 
invite  inspection,  as  the  curtains  are  partly 
drawn,  but  we  peep  over  the  top  and  look 
with  interest  at  the  queer  process  of  tonsorial 
achievement,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  barber 
and  his  customer,  if  the  expression  on  their 
faces  can  be  taken  as  an  index  of  their 
thoughts. 

Then  to  the  drug 
store,  the  market, 
the  shoeshop,  and  a 
dozen  other  places, 
to  finally  bring  up 
where  all  the  tourists 
do— at  the  "Mar- 
shall Field's"  of 
Chinatown,  Sing 
Fat's,  a  truly  mar- 
velous place,  where 
one  can  spend  hours 
looking  over  the 
countless  objects  of 
interest. 

One  of  the  pleas- 
ures   of    Chinatown 


A    CHINESE     SHOEMAKER 


104  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

is  to  see  the  children  of  rich  and  poor  on  the 
street,  dressed  in  their  Oriental  costumes, 
looking  like  tiny  yellow  flowers,  as  they  pick 
their  way  daintily  along  the  walk,  or  are  car- 
ried in  the  arms  of  the  happy  father — never 
the  mother.  If  you  would  make  the  father 
smile,  show  an  interest  in  the  boy  he  is  carry- 
ing so  proudly. 

To  gamble  is  a  Chinaman's  second  nature. 
Games  of  fan-tan  and  pie-gow  are  constantly 
in  operation;  and  the  police  either  tolerate 
or  are  powerless  to  stop  them.  Tong  wars 
are  of  frequent  occurrence,  crime  and  its 
punishment  being  so  mixed  up  that  an  out- 
sider cannot  unravel  them.  The  San  Fran- 
cisco police  have  struggled  with  the  question, 
but  have  finally  left  the  Chinese  to  settle  their 
own  affairs  after  their  own  fashion.  Opium 
dens  flourish  as  a  matter  of  course,  for  opium 
and  Chinese  are  synonymous  words.  You  can 
tell  an  opium  fiend  as  far  as  you  can  see  him; 
his  face  looks  like  wet  parchment  stretched 
over  a  skull  and  dried,  making  a  truly  grue- 
some sight.  Every  ship  that  comes  into  the 
bay  from  the  Orient  is  searched  for  opium, 
and  quantities  of  it  are  found  hidden  away 
under  the   planking,   or  in  other   places  less 


IN     CIIIXATOWX 


IN   CHINATOWN  107 

likely  to  be  detected  by  the  sharp-eyed  offi- 
cials.   When  found  it  is  at  once  confiscated. 

The  Chinese  are  an  extremely  superstitious 
people,  and  it  is  very  difficult  to  get  a  photo- 
graph of  them,  for  they  flee  from  the  camera 
man  as  from  the  wrath  to  come.  When  you 
think  you  are  about  to  get  a  good  picture,  and 
are  ready  to  press  the  button,  he  either  covers 
his  face,  or  turns  his  back  to  you.  The  writer 
was  congratulating  himself  on  the  picture  he 
was  about  to  take  of  four  Chinese  women  in 
their  native  costumes,  and  was  just  going  to 
make  the  exposure,  when  four  Chinamen  who 
were  watching  him  deliberately  stepped  in 
front  of  the  camera,  completely  spoiling  the 
negative.  The  younger  generation,  and  espe- 
cially the  girls,  will  occasionally  pose  for  you, 
and  a  truly  picturesque  group  they  make  in 
their  queer  mannish  dress  of  bright  colors,  as 
they  laugh  and  chatter  in  their  odd  but 
musical  jargon. 

A  few  years  ago  you  could  not  persuade  a 
Chinaman  to  talk  into  a  telephone,  for,  as  one 
of  them  said,  "No  can  see  talkee  him,"  mean- 
ing he  could  not  see  the  speaker.  Another 
said,  "Debil  talkee,  me  no  likee  him,"  but 
now  this  is  all  changed.    Some  there  are  who 


108  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

Still  cling  to  their  old  superstitions,  but  they 
are  few.  The  march  of  commerce  levels  all 
prejudices,  and  the  telephone  is  an  established 
fact  in  Chinatown.  They  have  their  own  ex- 
change, a  small  building  built  in  Chinese 
style,  and  their  own  operators.  Even  the  San 
Francisco  telephone  book  has  one  section 
devoted  to  them,  and  printed  in  Chinese 
characters.  And  so  civilization  goes  march- 
ing on,  the  old  order  changeth,  and  even  the 
Chinaman  must  of  necessity  conform  to  our 
ways. 

But  the  Chinatown  of  to-day  is  not  the 
Chinatown  existent  before  the  great  disaster 
of  1906.  It  has  changed,  and  that  for  the 
better,  better  both  for  the  city  and  the 
Chinaman. 

Mr.  Arnold  Genthe,  in  his  Old  China- 
town, says :  "I  think  we  first  glimpsed  the  real 
man  through  our  gradual  understanding  of 
his  honesty.  American  merchants  learned 
that  none  need  ever  ask  a  note  of  a  Chinaman 
in  any  commercial  transaction;  his  word  was 
his  bond."  And  while  they  still  have  their 
joss  houses,  worship  their  idols,  gamble,  and 
smoke  opium,  they  are  their  own  worst 
enemies;  they  do  not  bother  the  white  men, 


IN  CHINATOWN  109 

and    are    generally    considered    a    law    unto 
themselves. 

As  we  pass  on  down  Grant  Avenue  we  meet 
a  crowd  gathered  around  a  bulletin  board, 
where  hundreds  of  red  and  yellow  posters  are 
displayed.  All  are  excited,  chattering  like 
magpies,  as  they  discuss  the  latest  bulletin  of 
a  Tong  war,  or  some  other  notice  of  equal 
interest;  and  here  we  leave  them,  and  China- 
town also,  passing  over  the  line  out  of  the 
precincts  of  the  Celestial,  and  into  our  own 
"God's  country." 


!^t!r^ g-^f.'- 


a  Glass-botfom 
Boai 


z=^ 


_iL£ 


n  a  Glass-bottom 
Boat    . 


ABOUT  one  hundred  miles  south  of  San 
Francisco  lies  the  beautiful  Monterey 
Bay.  Here  hundreds  of  fishing  boats  of  all 
styles  and  sizes  tug  at  their  anchors,  awaiting 
the  turn  of  the  tide  to  sail  out  and  cast  their 
lines  for  baracuta,  yellowtail,  and  salmon, 
which  abound  in  these  waters  to  gladden  the 
heart  of  the  sturdy  fisherman.  One  may 
forego  the  pleasure  of  fishing  if  so  inclined, 
and  take  a  sail  in  the  glass-bottom  boat,  view- 
ing through  its  transparent  bottom  the  won- 
ders of  the  mighty  deep. 

There  were  fifteen  in  our  party,  ranged 
along  each  side  of  the  boat.  Curtains  were 
let  down  from  the  outside,  practically  cutting 
off  all  outside  light  and  making  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  as  light  as  day.  Our  boatman  in- 
formed us,  after  we  were  well  under  way,  that 


114  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

we  were  approaching  the  place  called  "The 
Garden  of  the  Sea  Gods,"  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  submarine  views  on  the  coast.  He 
did  not  exaggerate,  as  we  were  soon  to  know, 
for  the  scene  was  truly  wonderful,  and  rightly 
named.  All  kinds  of  sea  life  began  to  pass 
before  our  eyes,  like  the  fast  changing  figures 
of  a  kaleidoscope.  Here  the  delicate  sea  moss 
lay  like  a  green  carpet,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  a  touch  of  purple,  making  fantastic 
figures;  a  place  where  the  sea  fairies  might 
dance  and  hold  their  revels,  as  the  peasant 
girls  of  Normandy  dance  on  the  village  green. 
Close  beside  this  fairy  playground  great 
gray  rocks  rose  like  sentinels,  as  if  to  warn 
of¥  trespassers.  Clinging  to  their  rugged 
sides  were  starfish  of  all  sizes  and  colors, 
varying  from  white  to  red,  with  all  the  inter- 
vening shades.  Sea  urchins,  those  porcupines 
of  the  deep,  with  long,  prickly  spines,  looking 
like  a  lady's  pincushion,  were  in  profusion, 
and  clung  tenaciously  to  every  rock.  Now 
our  boat  glides  over  a  canon  whose  rugged 
sides  extend  away  down  into  the  depths,  and 
on  either  side  the  verdure  grows  tier  on  tier, 
like  a  veritable  forest.  We  wonder  what 
denizens  of  the  deep  are  lurking  under  the 


IN   A  GLASS-BOTTOM    BOAT 


115 


shadows  and  amid  the  stately  aisles,  to  dart 
out  on  the  unsuspecting  victim. 

On  we  glide  over  the  beautiful  sea  anemone, 
half  animal,  half  vegetable,  with  its  colors 
as  variegated  as  a  rose  garden.     Seaweed  and 


THl,    llkKAKING    WAVES 


kelp  wave  to  us  as  we  pass,  long-stemmed  sea 
grasses  moving  by  the  action  of  the  waves, 
like  a  feather  boa  worn  by  some  sea  nymph, 
twist  and  turn  like  a  thing  alive;  tall,  feathery 
plumes,  as  white  as  snow,  or  as  green  as 
emerald,  toss  to  and  fro,  and  make  obeisance 
to    old    Neptune.      Sea    onions,    with    stems 


116  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

thirty  feet  long,  and  bulbous  air-filled  sacks, 
reach  out  their  long  snaky  arms,  like  an 
octopus,  and  woe  to  the  swimmer  who  be- 
comes entangled  in  their  slimy  folds. 

We  pass  over  a  school  of  rock  cod — large, 
lazy  fellows — who  take  life  easy,  while  small, 
slim  tommy-cod  dart  in  and  out  among  the 
rocks  or  hide  under  the  mosses.  Steel  heads, 
as  spotted  as  an  adder,  glide  close  to  the  glass 
as  if  to  investigate,  then  dart  away  pursued 
by  some  larger  fish,  who  look  upon  them  as 
their  lawful  prey. 

Over  by  that  rock  a  hermit  crab  has  taken 
possession  of  a  sea  snail's  shell,  and  set  up 
housekeeping;  with  body  partly  hidden  he 
waves  his  long  bony  tentacles,  while  his  beady 
eyes  stare  at  us  from  the  doorway  of  his  home. 

Now  a  sea  grotto  passes  beneath  us,  mar- 
velously  beautiful  with  its  frostlike  tracery. 
Its  arched  openings  are  hung  with  a  tapestry 
of  pink  sea  moss,  which  swings  back  and 
forth  to  the  action  of  the  waves,  as  if  moved 
by  some  invisible  hand.  We  get  a  glimpse, 
in  passing,  of  the  interior  view  with  its  white, 
pebbly  floor,  in  which  the  basket  starfish  have 
possession — a  fitting  reception  room  for  sea 
nymph  or  mermaid.  Pillars  of  stone  incrusted 


IN  A  GLASS-BOTTOM   BOAT  119 

with  barnacles  and  periwinkles  rise  ail 
around,  while  long  tendrils  of  sea  ferns  wave 
like  banners  around  their  base. 

Our  boatman  tells  us  that  we  are  about  to 
pass  from  "The  Garden  of  the  Sea  Gods" 
into  "Heirs  Half-Acre."  What  a  change  in 
a  moment's  time!  A  desert  of  rock  tumbled 
in  a  heterogeneous  mass,  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
as  if  thrown  by  some  giant  hand  into  grotesque 
and  fantastic  shapes.  No  wonder  they  gave  it 
such  a  gruesome  name. 

In  such  a  place  one  would  expect  to  see  the 
bleaching  bones  of  sailors,  lost  at  sea,  or  the 
broken  and  dismantled  hulk  of  a  galleon,  half 
buried  in  the  sand.  A  shadow  crosses  our 
vision,  and  slowly  there  comes  to  our  sight  a 
shark,  that  scavenger  of  the  deep,  a  fitting 
spot  for  such  as  he  to  come  upon  the  stage. 
Slowly  he  passes,  turning  partly  on  his  side, 
showing  the  cruel  mouth  with  rows  of  serrated 
teeth.  His  eyes  look  at  us  as  if  in  anger  at 
being  cheated  of  his  prey,  then  on  he  glides 
like  a  specter,  and  with  a  flirt  of  his  tail  as 
he  waves  us  adieu,  he  passes  out  of  sight.  We 
breathe  a  sigh  of  thanksgiving  that  the  boat 
is  between  us  and  this  hideous,  cruel  mon- 
ster, and  another  sigh  of  regret  as  our  boat 


120  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

touches  the  wharf,  to  think  that  the  trip  is 
so  soon  ended.  Truly,  "those  who  go  down 
into  the  sea  in  ships"  have  wonders  revealed 
to  them  such  as  were  never  dreamed  of  in 
the  mind  of  man. 


:4; 

Fog   on 

the  Bay 

Fog 


on 


the  Bay 


ONE  could  hardly  find  a  more  perfect 
morning  than  this  in  early  March. 
The  sun  was  heralded  over  the  hills  in  a  blaze 
of  glory;  meadow  larks  strung  like  beads  on 
a  telegraph  wire  were  calling  their  cheery 
notes,  and  robins  were  singing  their  overture 
to  the  morning  sun. 

Boarding  the  Key  Route  train,  I  soon  ar- 
rived at  the  Oakland  mole,  to  find  it  crowded 
with  a  restless  tide  of  humanity,  waiting 
impatiently  for  the  overdue  boat.  Each  arriv- 
ing train  added  to  the  congestion,  until  the 
building  between  the  tracks  and  the  gangway 
was  crowded  with  anxious  commuters. 

Finally,  after  much  speculation  as  to  the 
delay,  the  tardy  boat  arrived,  and  a  steady 
stream  of  people  flowed  by  the  three  gang- 
ways to  the  upper  and  lower  decks.  The  last 
straggler  was   on   board   and   the   gangplank 


124  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

lifted,  reminding  me  of  the  stories  I  had  read 
of  raising  the  drawbridge  across  the  moat  of 
some  ancient  feudal  castle,  and  leaving  the 
mole  with  its  imitation  portcullis  behind  we 
steamed  out  into  the  bay.  The  sun  shone  from 
a  cloudless  sky,  and  there  was  not  enough 
wind  to  straighten  out  the  pennant  from  the 
masthead. 

We  were  hardly  opposite  Yerba  Buena 
Island,  however,  when  we  ran  into  a  fog  that 
completely  engulfed  us.  To  plunge  from 
bright  sunlight  into  a  blanket  of  gray  mist  so 
dense  that  one  cannot  see  fifty  feet  in  any 
direction,  has  just  enough  spice  of  danger 
about  it  to  make  it  interesting.  It  was  like 
being  cut  ofif  from  the  world,  with  nothing  in 
sight  but  this  clinging  curtain  enveloping  one 
like  a  damp  cloud,  settling  like  frost  on  every- 
thing it  touches,  and  glittering  like  diamond 
dust. 

An  undercurrent  of  anxiety  pervaded  the 
ship,  for  we  were  running  with  no  landmark 
to  guide  us,  and  with  only  the  captain's  knowl- 
edge of  the  bay  and  the  tides  to  bring  us 
safely  through. 

Passengers  crowded  to  the  rails,  straining 
their    eyes    into    the    dense    smother,    while 


FOG   ON    THE    BAY 


FOG  ON  THE  BAY  127 

whistles  were  blowing  on  all  sides.  The 
shrill  shriek  of  the  government  tug,  the 
hoarse  bellow  of  the  ocean  liner,  and  the  fog 
whistle  on  Yerba  Buena  Island,  all  joined  in 
a  strident  warning,  sending  their  intermittent 
blast  over  the  water. 

Our  engines  were  slowed  down  to  half- 
speed,  or  just  enough  to  give  her  steerage  way, 
while  the  anxious  captain  peered  from  the 
wheelhouse  with  one  hand  grasping  the  signal 
cord,  ready  for  any  emergency. 

The  sea  gulls  that  in  clear  weather  follow 
the  boats  back  and  forth  across  the  bay  by  the 
hundreds,  were  entirely  absent,  except  for  one 
sturdy  bird  that,  evidently  bewildered,  had 
lost  its  way  in  the  fog,  and  had  alighted  on 
the  flagpole  as  if  for  protection. 

Suddenly  across  our  bows  a  darker  spot 
appeared,  which  gradually  assumed  shape, 
and  a  Southern  Pacific  boat  loomed  like  a 
specter  from  the  smother  of  fog.  The  size 
was  greatly  enlarged  as  seen  through  the  veil 
of  mist,  and  the  dense  smoke  that  poured  from 
her  funnel  settled  around  her  like  a  pall, 
adding  greatly  to  its  weird  appearance. 

Our  captain  was  on  the  watch  for  just  such 
an  occurrence,  and  three  short,  sharp  blasts 


128  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

from  our  whistle  notified  the  oncoming  boat 
that  we  had  stopped  our  engines.  But  the 
tide  was  running  strong,  and  we  drew  closer 
and  closer  together,  until  we  involuntarily 
held  our  breath,  and  nerves  were  strung  to 
the  highest  tension.  The  great  screws  churned 
the  water  into  foam  as  we  slowly  backed  away 
from  each  other,  like  gladiators  testing  each 
other's  strength,  and  the  Southern  Pacific 
boat  vanished  into  the  fog  like  a  ghost,  swal- 
lowed up,  as  if  wiped  from  the  face  of  the 
waters,  sending  back  its  deep  bellowing 
whistle  as  if  bidding  an  angry  defiance  to  the 
elements. 

Slowly  we  moved  forward,  feeling  every 
inch  of  the  way,  like  one  groping  in  the  dark, 
passing  boat  after  boat  without  accident. 
One,  a  three-masted  schooner,  loaded  with 
lumber,  came  so  near  that  we  could  toss  a 
stone  on  board,  and  a  woman  who  stood  in 
the  bow  waved  a  large  tin  horn  at  us,  and 
then  applied  herself  to  blowing  it  most 
industriously. 

At  last  the  bells  on  the  piers  at  the  ferry 
came  floating  across  the  waters,  faint  at  first, 
but  growing  louder  as  we  advanced,  and 
never  did  bells  sound  sweeter  or  more  wel- 


FOG  OX   THE   BAY  129 

come.  1  imagine  they  were  thrice  welcome 
to  our  captain,  for  they  gave  him  the  direct 
course  to  our  anchorage.  Slower  and  yet 
slower  we  moved,  our  screw  scarcely  making 
a  ripple  on  the  water,  for  many  other  boats 
were  cautiously  feeling  their  way  to  their 
respective  berths,  and  we  must  use  all  our 
caution  not  to  run  foul  of  them. 

At  last  came  the  cry  from  some  one, 
"There's  the  light,"  and  flashing  out  from  the 
pier,  its  electric  rays  cutting  its  way  through 
the  wall  of  fog,  shone  that  intermittent  flame, 
and  we  knew  that  only  a  few  feet  away  was 
the  dock  and  safety. 

As  the  crowd  hurried  from  the  boat,  anx- 
ious to  reach  their  several  places  of  business 
without  further  delay,  many  turned  and 
looked  up  at  the  wheelhouse,  to  see  the  man 
whose  nerve  and  faithfulness  to  duty  had 
piloted  us  safe  to  port.  In  that  blue- 
uniformed  figure,  still  standing  with  hand 
upon  the  wheel,  we  saw  a  person  boyish  in 
appearance,  but  every  inch  a  man. 


n\  If   ^ 1^ ■■■<■' '"■■:; 


Wharf  .:J 


•v^~ 


^j::  >^III-irSJ^ 


;:::^s^^i^f^:t: 


AA^ 


<K, 


NORTH  from  the  ferry  building,  and 
near  the  foot  of  Powell  Street,  is 
one  of  the  old  landmarks  of  San  Francisco, 
known  as  Meiggs'  Wharf. 

In  the  early  sixties  an  old  saloon  was 
located  on  the  shore  end  of  this  wharf,  and 
connected  with  it  was  a  museum  which  con- 
tained many  quaint  curios  from  other  lands, 
some  of  them  of  considerable  value. 

The  occupant  of  this  saloon  never  allowed 
the  place  to  be  cleaned,  and  for  years  the 
spiders  held  undisputed  possession,  weaving 
their  webs  without  fear  of  molestation,  until 
every  nook  and  corner  was  filled  with  their 
tapestry,  and  from  ceiling  and  rafter  hung 
long  festoons  of  gossamer  threads  that  swayed 
back  and  forth  in  the  breeze.  It  was  a  place 
much  visited  by  tourists,  and  a  trip  to  San 
Francisco  was  not  considered  complete  with- 
out visiting  this  "Cobweb  Museum,"  a  name 
bestowed  upon  it  by  its  many  guests. 


134  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

It  is  said  that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
loved  to  visit  this  wharf  and  listen  to  the  tales 
told  by  the  hardy  sailors,  and  that  out  of  them 
he  wove  some  of  his  most  delightful  South 
Sea  Island  stories. 

Meiggs  died  in  Peru  in  1877,  where  he 
fled,  a  fugitive  from  justice,  and  has  long 
since  been  forgotten  except  by  the  older  resi- 
dents. The  wharf  still  remains,  however, 
though  more  familiarly  known  to  the  people 
of  this  generation  as  "Fisherman's  Wharf"; 
but  the  old  cobweb  saloon  and  museum  are 
things  of  the  past. 

From  here  the  Italian  fishing  boats  leave 
for  their  fishing  grounds  out  beyond  the 
heads,  and  if  you  visit  the  wharf  in  the  early 
morning  you  may  see  hundreds  of  these  boats 
sail  out  past  Land's  End,  and  through  the 
Golden  Gate,  making  a  picture  worthy  of  an 
artist's  brush. 

When  the  sun  comes  flashing  over  the  hills, 
and  the  dancing  waves  glisten  with  its  rosy 
light,  then  the  waters  of  the  bay  take  on  the 
color  of  the  amethyst.  Go  then  to  Meiggs' 
Wharf,  and  see  the  fishing  boats  start  out 
with  lateen  sail  full  set;  hear  the  "Yo  heave 
ho"  of  the  swarthy  Italian  fishermen,  as  they 


MEIGGS     WHARF 


137 


set  their  three-cornered,  striped  sail  to  catch 
the  breeze,  and  imagine  yourself  on  the  far- 
famed  bay  of  Naples.  Your  imagination  does 
not  suffer  by  comparison,  as  San  Francisco, 
like  Naples,  is  built  upon  the  hills,  and  Mount 


DRYINC.  THi;   NETS 


Tamalpais  across  the  bay,  with  wreaths  of 
fog  floating  around  its  summit,  might  well  be 
taken  for  Mount  Vesuvius. 

Out  through  the  portals  of  the  Golden  Gate 
they  sail,  like  brown-winged  pelicans,  to  drop 
their  nets  and  cast  their  lines  into  the  mighty 
deep;  but  these  picturesque  boats  are  fast 
giving  way  to  more  modern  conveyances,  and 


138  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

the  fussy  motorboat,  that  is  not  dependent 
upon  wind  or  tide,  will  soon  relegate  the 
lateen  sail  to  total  obscurity. 

Go  again  to  the  wharf  in  the  late  afternoon, 
and  watch  these  same  boats  come  laboring  in 
against  the  tide,  sunk  deep  in  the  water  with 
their  day's  catch.  See  them  unload,  and 
spread  the  nets  to  dry,  and  if  you  can  find  one 
of  these  grizzled  old  salts  off  duty,  and  he 
feels  so  inclined,  he  will  tell  you  (between 
puffs  on  his  short,  black  pipe)  strange  and 
interesting  stories  of  adventure  at  sea  or  of 
shipwreck  on  lonely  island. 

Then,  as  the  sails  are  furled,  and  all  made 
snug  aloft  and  below,  and  the  boats  bob  up 
and  down  on  the  long  swells,  straining  at 
their  moorings,  the  sun  sinks  down  behind  the 
ocean,  leaving  the  wharf  in  shadow.  The 
lights  begin  to  gleam  in  the  city,  the  tower  of 
the  ferry  building  gleams  like  a  beacon,  out- 
lined with  its  thousands  of  incandescent 
lights,  and  the  ferryboat  takes  us  across  the 
bay  and  home,  to  dream  of  queer-shaped 
sails,  of  ancient  mariners,  and  the  "Golden 
City"  on  the  bay. 


The  Stake  and  Rider  Fence 


it^^g^ 


The  Stake  and  Rider  Fence 


I    LOVE   to   let  my   fancy  go   wandering 
where  it  will, 
To  the  happy  days  of  boyhood,  to  the  meadow 

and  the  hill ; 
To  the  brooks  and  quiet  places,  to  the  woods 

that  seemed  immense. 
But  they  always  linger  fondly  at  the  stake- 
and-rider  fence. 

Here,    cicadas    sing    their    loudest,    and    the 

crickets  draw  the  bow. 
And   the   'hoppers   and   the   locusts   join   the 

chorus,  soft  and  low; 
And  you  hear  the  bees  a  humming  like  a  fiddle 

with  one  string. 
While  the  air  just  seems  to  vibrate  with  a 

soothing  kind  of  ring. 


142  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 


There  the  squirrel  scolds  and  chatters  as  he 

runs  along  the  rail, 
And  you  hear  the  rain-crow  calling,  and  the 

whistle  of  the  quail ; 
And  the  catbird,  and  the  blue  jay,  scold  with 

vigor  most  intense, 
As   they  build  among  the  branches   by  the 

stake-and-rider  fence. 

There  grew  the  tasseled  milkweed  with  its 
bursting  silken  pods. 

And  the  stately,  waving  branches  of  the  yel- 
low goldenrod; 

The  mullein  stalk  and  asters,  with  teasels 
growing  dense, 

God's  garden,  in  the  angle  of  the  stake-and- 
rider  fence. 

It  was  homely,  but  I  loved  it,  and  I  wouldn't 

trade,  would  you? 
For  all  the  hothouse  beauties  that  a  florist 

ever  knew. 
Yes,  I'd  give  up  earthly  honors,  and  count  it 

recompense. 
Just  to  wander  through  the  meadow  by  the 

stake-and-rider  fence. 


M^^mm^:^^  t 


THE  beautiful  California  days,  with 
warm  sunshine  tempered  by  the  cool 
winds  from  the  bay,  are  not  surpassed  in  any 
country  under  the  sun.  But  if  the  days  are 
perfect,  the  brilliant  moonlight  nights  lose 
nothing  by  comparison. 

To  tramp  the  hills  and  woods,  or  climb  the 
rugged  mountains  by  day,  is  a  joy  to  the 
nature  lover.  But  the  same  trip  by  moon- 
light has  an  interest  and  charm  entirely  its 
own,  and  mysteries  of  nature  are  revealed  un- 
dreamed of  at  noonday. 

The  wind,  that  has  run  riot  during  the 
day,  has  blown  itself  out  by  evening,  and  the 
birds  have  gone  to  sleep  with  heads  tucked 
under  their  wings,  or  settled  with  soft  breasts 
over  nestlings  that  twitter  soft  "good  nights" 
to  mother  love.    The  dark  shadows  of  evening 


14G  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

Steal  the  daylight,  and  caiion  and  ravine  lose 
their  rugged  outlines,  blending  into  soft, 
shadowy  browns  and  purples.  The  moon 
peeps  over  the  hilltop,  the  stars  come  out  one 
by  one,  the  day  is  swallowed  up  in  night,  and 
the  moonlight  waves  its  pale  wand  over  the 
landscape. 

In  the  deep  woods  it  flickers  through  the 
branches,  mottling  the  ground  with  silver 
patches,  and  throwing  into  grand  relief  the 
trunks  of  trees,  like  sentinels  on  duty.  It 
touches  the  little  brook  as  softly  as  a  baby's 
kiss,  and  transforms  it  into  a  sheen  of  gold. 
It  drops  its  yellow  light  upon  a  bed  of  ferns 
until  each  separate  frond  stands  out  like  a 
willow  plume  nodding  up  and  down  in  the 
mellow  gleam.  A  flowering  dogwood  bathed 
in  its  ethereal  light  shimmers  like  a  bridal 
veil  adorning  a  wood  nymph.  It  lays  its 
gentle  touch  on  the  waterfall,  transforming  it 
into  a  torrent  of  molten  silver,  and  causing 
each  drop  to  glisten  like  topaz  under  its  witch- 
ing light. 

Overhead  fleecy  clouds,  like  white-wdnged 
argosies,  sail  high  amid  the  blue,  or,  finer 
spun,  like  a  lady's  veil,  are  drawn,  gauzelike, 
across  the  sky,  through  which  the  stars  peep 


MOONLIGHT  149 

out  with  twinkling  brilliancy.  The  scent  of 
new-mown  hay  laden  with  falling  dew  comes 
floating  up  from  the  valley  with  an  intoxicat- 
ing sweetness,  a  sweetness  to  which  the  far- 
famed  perfume  of  Arabia  is  not  to  be 
compared. 

The  crickets,  those  little  black  minstrels  of 
the  night,  chirp  under  the  log  upon  which 
you  are  resting,  and  the  katydids  repeat  over 
and  over  again  "Katy's"  wonderful  achieve- 
ment, though  just  what  this  amazing  conquest 
was  no  one  has  been  able  to  discover.  The 
cicadas  join  the  chorus  with  their  strident 
voices,  their  notes  fairly  tumbling  over  each 
other  in  their  exuberance,  and  in  their  hurry 
to  sing  their  solos.  Tree  toads  tune  up  for 
the  evening  concert,  a  few  short  notes  at  first, 
like  a  violinist  testing  the  strings,  then,  the 
pitch  ascertained,  the  air  fairly  vibrates  with 
their  rhapsody. 

Fireflies  light  their  tiny  lanterns  and  flash 
out  their  signals,  like  beacon  lights  in  the 
darkness,  while,  ringing  up  from  the  valley, 
the  call  of  the  whip-poor-will  echoes  clear 
and  sweet,  each  syllable  pronounced  as  dis- 
tinctly as  if  uttered  by  a  human  voice.  In  a 
tree  overhead  a  screech  owl  emits  his  evening 


1.50  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

call  in  a  clear,  vibrating  tremolo,  as  if  to  warn 
the  smaller  birds  that  he  is  on  watch,  and 
considers  them  his  lawful  prey.  The  night 
hawk  wheels  in  his  tireless  flight,  graceful  as 
a  thistledown,  soaring  through  space  without 
a  seeming  motion  of  the  wings,  emitting  a 
whirring  sound  from  wings  and  tail  feathers, 
and  darting,  now  and  again,  with  the  swift- 
ness of  light  after  some  insect  that  comes 
under  his  keen  vision. 

If  you  remain  quite  still,  you  may  per- 
chance detect  a  cotton-tail  peeping  at  you 
from  some  covert.  Watch  him  closely,  and 
do  not  move  a  muscle,  and  when  his  curiosity 
is  somewhat  appeased,  see  him  thump  the 
ground  with  his  hind  foot,  trying  to  scare 
you  into  revealing  your  identity.  If  not  dis- 
turbed, his  fear  will  vanish,  and  he  will  gam- 
bol almost  at  your  feet. 

You  are  fortunate  indeed,  if,  on  your 
nightly  rambles,  you  find  one  of  the  large 
night  moths  winging  its  silent  flight  over  the 
moonlit  glade,  resting  for  an  instant  on  a 
mullein-stalk,  then  dancing  away  in  his 
erratic  flight,  like  some  pixy  out  for  a  lark. 

O  the  witchery  of  moonlight  nights,  when 
tree,    shrub,    and   meadow   are   bathed    in    a 


MOONLIGHT  151 

sheen  of  silver;  when  lovers  walk  arm  in 
arm,  and  in  soft  whisperings  build  air  castles 
for  the  days  to  come,  when  the  honeysuckle 
shall  twine  around  their  doorway,  and  the 
moonlight  rest  like  a  benediction  on  their  own 
home  nest;  when  you  sit  on  the  porch  with 
day's  work  done,  and  the  fireflies  dance  over 
the  lawn,  and  the  voice  of  the  whip-poor- 
will  floats  up  from  the  meadow,  and  you 
dream  dreams,  and  weave  strange  fancies, 
under  the  witching  spell  of  the  silver  moon- 
light! 


Mouj^^J'Qrnarpais 


.^"O    ... 


■fA^T  ^r-.ji' 


Mount^Bmalpais 


THERE  are  mountains  and  mountains, 
each  one  with  an  individuality  all 
its  own.  There  are  mountains  w^hose  lofty 
peaks  are  covered  with  perpetual  snow,  like 
a  bridal  robe  adorned  with  jewels,  with  the 
rising  sun  kissing  each  separate  fold  into 
glowing  splendor;  mountains  whose  rugged 
summits  rise  far  above  the  timber  line,  somber 
and  imposing,  with  fleecy  clouds  floating 
round  the  rocky  pinnacles  like  fine  spun  silver. 

Mount  Tamalpais  is  not  so  lofty  as  Pike's 
Peak,  or  Mount  Hood,  but  what  it  loses  in 
altitude  it  makes  up  in  splendor,  and  a  trip 
to  its  summit,  over  the  crookedest  railroad  in 
the  world,  ofifers  a  view  that  is  unsurpassed. 

Leaving  the  ferry  building,  we  have  a 
delightful  ride  on  the  bay,  passing  close  to 
Alcatraz  Island,  where  the  military  prison  is 
located,  with  a  view  of  Fort  Point  and  Fort 


loG  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

Baker,  passing  near  the  United  States  Quar- 
antine Station  on  Angel  Island,  and  arrive  at 
Sausalito,  perched  on  the  hillside  like  some 
hamlet  on  the  Rhine;  then  by  rail  to  Mill 
Valley,  a  beautiful  little  town  nestling  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  like  a  Swiss  village. 
Here  we  change  to  the  observation  train  drawn 
by  a  mountain-climbing  traction  engine,  and 
begin  the  climb.  The  ascent  is  a  gradual  one, 
the  steepest  grade  being  a  trifle  over  seven 
per  cent,  while  the  train  twists  and  turns 
around  two  hundred  and  sixty  curves  from 
the  base  to  the  summit.  We  enter  a  forest 
of  the  giant  redwoods,  which,  enormous  in 
girth,  and  three  hundred  feet  high,  have  defied 
the  elements  for  thousands  of  years.  Crossing 
a  caiion  filled  with  madrones,  oaks,  and 
laurels,  we  look  down  upon  a  panorama  of 
exceeding  beauty.  At  a  certain  point  the 
train  seems  about  to  jump  ofif  into  space,  but 
it  makes  a  sharp  curve  around  a  jutting  clifif 
on  the  edge  of  the  canon,  and  a  broader  view 
bursts  upon  us,  a  view  unparalleled  for  its 
magnificence. 

About  half  way  up  we  reach  the  double 
bowknot,  where  the  road  parallels  itself  five 
times  in  a  short  distance,  and  where  one  can 


MOUNT    TAMALPAIS 


MOUNT  TAMALPAIS 


159 


change  cars  and  go  down  the  other  side  of 
the  mountain  to  Muir  Woods.     We  stay  by 
the  train,  and  toil  upward,  over  Slide  Gulch, 
through    McKinley    Cut,    and    at    last,    with 
aching  but  beauty-filled  eyes,  we   reach  the 
summit.      From  the   top   of   most  mountains 
surrounding  peaks  shut  off  the  view  to  some 
extent,  but  from  the  summit  of  Mount  Ta- 
malpais  there  is  an  unbroken  view.    Rising 
as    it    does    almost    from    the    shores    of    the 
bay,   there  are  miles   and   miles  of  uninter- 
rupted view.  Far  be- 
low us  the  ocean  and 
the  bay  shimmer  like 
a  mirror,  and  majes- 
tic ocean  liners,  out- 
ward    bound,     look 
like  toy  boats.     To 
the     left     Mount 
Hamilton    rises    out 
of  the  purple  haze, 
while    to    the    right 
Mount    Diablo 
pushes  its  great  bulk 
above  the  clouds. 

It  is  claimed  that 
twenty  or  more  cities 

AN    UNINTERKUPTEU    \'1L\\ 


160  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

and  towns  can  be  seen  from  the  top  of  Mount 
Tamalpais.  Whether  this  be  true  or  not,  I 
cannot  say,  but  it  is  certain  that  we  saw  a  good 
many,  near  and  far,  and  it  is  also  true  that  on 
a  clear  day  the  Sierras,  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  distant,  can  be  plainly  seen. 

From  the  hotel  near  the  summit  one  gets 
an  unsurpassed  view  of  San  Francisco  Bay, 
the  Clifif  House,  and  the  Farallone  Islands; 
and  if  you  are  fortunate  enough  to  see  the  sun 
sink  behind  the  ocean,  between  the  portals  of 
the  Golden  Gate,  you  will  never  forget  the 
sight.  All  the  colors  of  the  artist's  palette  are 
thrown  across  the  sky,  changing  from  red  to 
orange,  from  orange  to  purple;  each  white- 
capped  wave  is  touched  with  a  rosy  phos- 
phorescence, and  scintillates  like  a  thousand 
jewels. 

To  ascend  Mount  Tamalpais  on  foot,  fol- 
lowing the  railroad,  is  not  a  difficult  task,  and 
is  well  worth  the  efifort,  for  then  you  can  take 
time  to  enjoy  the  varied  views  that  burst  upon 
your  vision  at  each  turn  of  the  road,  and 
linger  as  long  as  you  like  over  each  choice 
bit  of  scenery.  As  you  descend  you  feel  that 
the  day  upon  the  mountain  has  been  a  day 
of  vision  and  of  beauty. 


OVER  the  second  range  of  hills  that  shut 
in  San  Francisco  Bay  on  the  east  is 
a  delightful  little  trout  brook  known  as  Bear 
Creek.  With  my  camera,  a  frugal  lunch, 
and  an  assortment  of  trout  flies  carefully 
stowed  away  in  my  knapsack,  I  started  in 
quest  of  this  little  stream  that  follows  the 
windings  of  the  canon. 

If  bears  had  ever  inhabited  this  locality, 
and  posed  as  its  godfathers,  they  had  long 
since  disappeared,  and  many  years  had  passed 
since  they  had  slaked  their  thirst  with  its 
sparkling  waters.  Only  the  name  remained 
to  remind  one  of  other  days,  and  one  name  is 
as  good  as  another  to  a  trout  brook. 

My  object  was  not  so  much  to  tempt  the 
speckled  trout  with  gaudy  fly  from  quiet  pool 
or  swirling  rifl^e,  as  to  follow  the  windings 


164  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

of  the  Stream,  and  spy  out  the  quiet  nooks, 
where  the  sun  comes  filtering  through  the 
trees,  dappling  the  water;  or  resting  in  the 
shadows  where  the  thick  foliage  defies  its 
penetrating  rays,  and  spreads  a  somber  hue 
on  mossy  rock  or  bed  of  ferns.  At  one  place, 
perhaps  a  rod  from  the  margin  of  the  brook, 
was  a  sort  of  amphitheater  among  the  trees, 
where  nature  had  been  prodigal  with  her 
colors,  touching  the  woods  in  spots  here  and 
there  with  ocher,  umber,  and  vermilion.  She 
had  even  brushed  with  scarlet  many  of  the 
shrubs  and  vines,  until  they  glowed  with  a 
warm  color  against  the  green  background. 

The  pine  trees  had  shed  their  needles, 
making  a  carpet  soft  as  velvet,  where  wood- 
land elves  might  revel  or  the  god  Pan  practice 
upon  his  pipes,  laughing  nymphs  dancing  to 
the  music. 

Is  there  anything  in  nature  more  com- 
panionable than  a  mountain  brook?  It  has 
its  moods  both  grave  and  gay,  and  is  as  fickle 
as  a  schoolgirl.  At  times  it  chuckles  at  you 
in  a  musical  undertone  as  you  walk  along  its 
banks,  and  again  it  seems  to  warn  you  from 
trespassing  on  its  preserves,  scolding  in  a 
shrill  falsetto  as  it  dodges  under  the  roots  of 


BEAR  CREEK 


165 


a  fallen  tree,  or  dives  among  the  lilypads,  as 
if  to  hide  from  your  sight.  But  when  it  swirls 
down  the  eddy,  and  comes  to  rest  by  an  over- 
hanging rock,  where  the  shadows  are  dark 
and  the  water  deep,  its  song  is  hushed,  as  if 
in  fear  of  disturbing  the  wary  trout  that  lie 
in  hiding  in  the  depths  of  the   pool. 

This  is  a  likely  place  for  fish,  and  I  put  my 
rod  together  and  cast  my  flies,  dropping  them 
as   lightly   as   a   thistle-    - 
down,  and  using  all  my 
skill,  but  no  trout  rise  to      - 
my    lure;    this    is    evi- 
dently their  day  off,  or 
my  flies  are  too  palpable 
a  subterfuge  to  tempt  a 
self-respecting  trout. 

Sitting  on  a  log,  one 
end  of  which  projects 
over  the  stream,  I  watch 
a  dragon-fly,  or  darning 
needle,  float  over  the 
water,  his  flight  so  swift 
my  eyes  can  hardly  fol- 
low it.  At  last  it  stops 
in  front  of  me,  perfect- 
ly poised  for  a  second, 

WHERE  THE   SH.\DOVVS   ARE  DARK 


166  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

but  with  wings  in  rapid  motion,  then  darts 
away  to  perform  its  acrobatic  feat  of  standing 
on  its  head  on  a  lilypad,  or  to  feast  on  the 
gnats  and  other  insects  that  it  captures  while 
on  the  wing.  Truly  it  is  rightly  named  a 
dragon. 

The  whirligig-beetles,  those  social  little 
black  fellows,  gather  in  large  numbers  and 
chase  each  other  round  and  round  in  graceful 
curves,  skating  over  the  water  as  if  enjoying 
a  game  of  tag. 

Leaving  the  beetles  at  their  game,  I  come 
to  a  place  where  the  brook  seems  to  hesitate 
on  the  brink  of  a  mimic  waterfall,  as  if  afraid 
to  take  the  dive,  but  like  a  boy  unwilling  to 
take  a  dare,  it  plunges  over  the  brink  to  the 
pool  below,  with  gurgling  laughter,  in  a  per- 
fect ecstasy  of  bravado. 

A  leaf  drops  from  an  overhanging  bough, 
falling  so  lightly  that  it  barely  makes  a  ripple, 
then  sails  away  like  a  mimic  ship  to  far-ofif 
ports,  dancing  along  at  every  caprice  of  the 
fitful  current;  only  to  be  stranded  at  last,  cast 
away  like  a  shipwrecked  galleon,  on  some 
distant  island. 

In  the  shadows  the  brook  seems  to  have  a 
more  solemn  tone,  in  keeping  with  its  somber 


ON   BEAR   CREEK 


BEAR  CREEK  1(39 

surroundings,  singing  its  song  to  the  white- 
petaled  saxifrage  that  peeps  out  at  it  over  the 
bed  of  maidenhair  fern,  or  the  bright-leaved 
water  cress ;  then  flashing  out  into  the  sun- 
light, and,  like  a  boy  out  of  school,  romping 
and  laughing  in  utter  abandon. 

Flowering  currants,  with  rose-pink  clusters 
of  blossoms,  line  the  banks,  scattering  their 
fragrance  far  and  near.  The  rancorous  cry 
of  the  catbird,  and  the  rattling  call  of  the 
kingfisher,  that  feathered  spirit  of  the  stream, 
are  left  behind;  the  clear  flutelike  notes  of 
the  meadow  lark  take  their  place,  and  the 
hills,  covered  with  wild  flowers,  roll  back 
from  its  margin,  as  if  to  make  room  for  its 
uninterrupted  flow. 

The  Western  bluebird  floats  across  the 
meadow  like  a  flashing  sapphire,  and  the  lark- 
sparrow  pours  forth  his  melody,  as  he  teeters 
up  and  down  on  a  weed  stalk. 

But  at  night  the  brook  is  heard  at  its  best, 
when  it  performs  its  symphonies  for  the 
flickering  moonlight  that  nestles  upon  its 
bosom,  and  the  stars  that  reflect  their  lamps  on 
its  surface. 

Make  your  camp  on  its  margin  and  when 
your   fire   burns    low,    and   you    draw   your 


170  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAX  FRANCISCO  BAY 

blanket  around  you,  with  the  mountain  brook 
singing  its  lullaby,  and  the  vesper  sparrow 
chanting  its  melodious  vesper  hymn,  you  can 
say  with  the  psalmist,  "I  will  both  lay  me 
down  in  peace  and  sleep,"  and  you  might  add, 
"lulled  by  the  song  of  the  mountain  brook." 


of  the  Reef  ^' 


of  the  Reet^. 


4  ^>' 


A.^  )«!ft^'" 


CLOSE   by   the   edge   of   the   lily   pads, 
there's  a  flash  and  swirl  of  spray, 
And  the  line  draws  taut,   and  the   rod  dips 

low,  and  I  sing  as  he  speeds  away; 
And  I  whir  and  click  with  the  joy  of  life,  as 

the  line  runs  in  and  out. 
And  I  laugh  with  glee  as  I  reel  him  in,  the 
gamy  and  speckled  trout. 

And  again  the  silken  line  is  cast,  and  the  fly 

like  a  feather  glides. 
Close  to  the  rock  where  the  water's  deep,  and 

the  wary  black  bass  hides. 
There's   a  strike   and   a   run   as   the  game   is 

hooked,  and  his  rush  with  a  snub  is  met, 
But  he  yields  at  last  to  the  steady  strain,  and 

is  brought  to  the  landing  net. 


174  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

As  the  sun  sinks  low  in  the  western  sky,  and 

the  shadows  longer  grow, 
And  the  night  hawk  wheels  in  his  silent  flight, 

and  the  crickets  draw  their  bow, 
And  the  cat-tails  wave  in  the  gentle  breeze, 

and  the  boat  glides  on  apace; 
Then  I  reel  in  the  line,  while  the  bamboo  rod 

is  laid  away  in  its  case. 

The  bass  and  the  trout,  and  the  wall-eyed  pike, 

the  pickerel  and  muskalonge. 
Have  each  and  all  been  lost  or  won  as  I  caused 

them  to  race  or  plunge, 
I'm  the  sportsman's  friend,  and  a  foeman  bold, 

and  I've  filled  full  many  a  creel; 
For  what  would  the  fisherman's  luck  be  worth 

without  the  song  of  the  reel? 


«a^ 


The    Old     Road 


''^-^^■^"^^mm-mmmik^,^ 


The    Old     Road 


"^  /^-rV'^^f;^, 


THERE  is  an  old  road  that  I  love  to 
follow.  If  one  may  judge  by  ap- 
pearances, it  is  but  slightly  used  by  travelers, 
for  it  seems  to  lead  nowhere,  and  is  quite  con- 
tent in  its  wanderings,  winding  through 
canons,  over  hills,  and  down  valleys.  I  am 
told  by  one  who  ought  to  know — for  he  is 
an  old  resident — that  if  you  follow  its  tortuous 
course  far  enough,  it  will  lead  you  to  a  town 
called  Walnut  Creek,  but  I  cannot  vouch  for 
the  truth  of  this  assertion,  as  I  have  never 
found  a  town  or  hamlet  along  its  winding 
course.  In  fact,  I  remember  but  one 
place  of  abode  along  its  entire  length,  and 
this,  a  weather-beaten  cottage  nearly  hidden 
by  the  pepper  and  acacia  trees  that  sur- 
round it. 

It  is  a  quaint  little  place,  and  might  have 


178  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY 

inspired  the  poet  to  write  that  beautiful  poem 
containing  the  lines, 

Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
And  be  a  friend  to  man, 

for  the  cooling  draught  passed  out  to  mc  one 
hot  afternoon  from  this  house  would  certainly 
class  the  occupant  as  a  benefactor. 

The  dew  was  sparkling  on  the  grass  when 
I  set  out  in  the  early  morning,  gossamer  spider 
webs  strung  from  leaf  and  stem  glistened  in 
the  sunlight,  and  up  from  a  tuft  of  grass  a 
meadow  lark  sprang  on  silent  wing,  scattering 
his  silvery  notes,  a  paean  of  praise  to  the  early 
dawn. 

A  bluebird's  notes  blend  with  those  of  the 
song  sparrow,  and  a  robin  swinging  on  the 
topmost  branch  of  a  eucalyptus,  after  a  few 
short  notes  as  a  prelude,  pours  forth  a  perfect 
rhapsody  of  melody. 

At  this  place  a  hill  encroaches  upon  the 
road  at  the  right,  covered  thickly  with  under- 
brush and  blackberry  vines,  its  crest  sur- 
mounted with  a  stately  grove  of  eucalyptus 
trees,  while  on  the  left  there  is  an  almost  per- 
pendicular drop  to  the  valley  below.  So 
narrow  is  the  road  that  teams  can  hardly  pass 


THE  OLD   ROAD 


179 


each  other.  Why  it  should  crowd  itself  into 
such  narrow  quarters  when  there  is  room  to 
spare  is  its  own  secret. 

Stretching  its  dusty  length  along,  it  soon 
broadens  out  as  if  glad  to  escape  from  its 
cramped  quarters,  and  glides  under  the  wide 
spreading  branches  of  a  California  buckeye, 
which  stands  kneedeep  in  the  beautiful 
clarkia,  with  its  rose-pink  petals,  and  wand- 
like stalks  of  the  narrow-leaved  milkweed, 
with  silken  pods  bursting  with  fairy  sails 
ready  to  start  out  on 
unknown  travels. 

Leaving  the  shade, 
it  climbs  the  hill  for 
a  broader  view  of 
the  surrounding 
landscape,  and  looks 
down  on  the  bay  on 
one  side,  and  the 
rolling  hills  and  val- 
leys on  the  other. 
Yellow  buttercups 
nod  to  it  from  the 
meadow,  and  the 
lavender  snap  drag- 
ons wave  their 
threadlike  fingers  in 


THE    OLD    ROAD 


180  BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 

silent  greeting.  Tall,  stately  teasels  stand  like 
sentinels  along  the  way,  and  the  balsamic  tar- 
weed  spreads  its  fragrance  along  the  outer 
edge. 

Threading  its  way  down  a  steep  hill; 
through  a  wealth  of  tangled  grasses;  past  a 
grove  of  live  oaks,  from  whose  twisted  and 
contorted  limbs  the  gray  moss  hangs  in  long 
festoons,  by  Indian  paintbrush  and  scarlet 
bugler  gleaming  like  sparks  of  fire  amid  the 
green  and  bronze  foliage,  it  glides  at  last  Into 
a  somber  canon.  There  a  bridge  spans  the 
brook  that  gurgles  its  elfin  song  to  cheer  the 
dusty  traveler  on  its  way. 

The  laurel,  madrone,  and  manzanitas  keep 
it  company  for  some  distance  on  either  side, 
and  a  catbird  mews  and  purrs  from  a  clump 
of  willows  on  the  margin  of  the  stream.  A 
dozen  or  more  yellow-winged  butterflies 
gathered  at  a  moist  spot,  scatter  like  autumn 
leaves  before  a  gust  of  wind  at  my  approach, 
dancing  away  on  fairy  wings  like  golden 
sunbeams. 

At  a  place  where  the  road  makes  a  bend  to 
the  right,  and  the  cat-tails  and  rushes  grow 
in  profusion,  a  blue  heron,  that  spirit  of  the 
marsh,  stands  grotesque  and  sedate,  and  gazes 


THE   OLD   ROAD  183 

with  melancholy  air  into  the  water.  Bull- 
frogs pipe,  running  the  whole  gamut  of  tones 
from  treble  to  bass,  hidden  away  amid  the 
water  grasses.  Darning  needles  dodge  in  and 
out  among  the  rushes  in  erratic  flight,  and  a 
blackbird  teeters  up  and  down  on  a  tulle  stem 
while  repeating  over  and  over  his  pleasant 
"O-ko-lee." 

But  the  road  does  not  stop  to  look  or  listen, 
and  once  more  it  climbs  the  hill  where  the 
golden  poppy  basks  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
dandelions  spread  their  yellow  carpet  for  it 
to  pass  over,  or,  nodding  silken  heads  scatter 
their  tiny  fleet  of  a  hundred  fairy  balloons 
upon  the  wings  of  the  summer  winds. 

Down  the  road,  whistling  blithely,  comes 
a  slip  of  a  boy,  with  fishing  rod,  cut  from 
the  adjacent  thicket,  over  his  shoulder  and 
a  can  of  bait  tucked  securely  under  his  arm, 
happy  as  a  king  in  anticipation  of  the  fish  he 
may  never  catch.  At  his  heels  trots  content- 
edly a  yellow  dog.  True  companions  of  the 
highway  are  they,  for  no  country  road  would 
be  complete  without  its  boy  and  dog,  and  as 
I  pass  them  I  call  back,  "Good  luck,  my 
doughty  fisherman,"  and  the  road  answers — 
or  was  it  an  echo? — "Good  luck,  good  luck." 


181 


BYWAYS  AROUND  SAN   FRANCISCO  BAY 


But  at  last  the  shadows  creep  down  canon 
and  hillside,  the  soft  light  of  evening  touches 
the  tops  of  tree  and  shrub  with  a  rosy 
splendor,  shading  from  green  to  gold,  from 
gold  to  purple;  and  through  the  gathering 
dusk  the  road  sinks  into  the  surrounding 
gloom,  toiling  on  in  silence  with  only  the 
stars  for  company,  and  the  lights  from  firefly 
lanterns  to  guide  it  on  its  lonely  way. 


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